


grief lessons

by amonglilies



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst, Estrangement, Fake Marriage, Grief/Mourning, Happy Ending, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Making Up, Non-Explicit Sex, Post-Golden Deer Route (Fire Emblem: Three Houses), Post-Time Skip, Post-War, Survivor Guilt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-10
Updated: 2020-12-10
Packaged: 2021-03-10 03:13:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27977166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amonglilies/pseuds/amonglilies
Summary: There’s a lot on his mind — countless reports still left to sift through, decrees to draft, resources to reallocate. Though most towns do well managing on their own, bandits still remain a problem in the rural areas where their patrols are spread thin, with merchants who aren’t able to hire sellswords to defend their caravans hesitant to travel. Then there’s the matter of Those Who Slither In the Dark, deciding what their next course of action should be, what plans and preparations they’ll need to make before they decide to strike again.And as if that wasn’t enough, Felix has returned, ten years since he left.
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 27
Kudos: 129





	grief lessons

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文-普通话 國語 available: [［譯］悲慟的啟示 | grief lessons](https://archiveofourown.org/works/28407555) by [betty302](https://archiveofourown.org/users/betty302/pseuds/betty302)



> An even briefer summary of this fic would be: imagine if Sylvain and Felix were fake married, but also estranged, but also clearly in love, but also too afraid to talk about it
> 
> Sorry in advance if the plot stuff doesn't quite line up or if I ended up getting details flat out wrong...there may have been some handwaving going on regarding the politics and world details not elaborated on in canon.
> 
> Warnings: other than Dimitri, the death of a few other characters are mentioned (Dedue, Ingrid, Lysithea) and there's discussion of guilt/grief. There is one instance of Sylvain talking about a relationship he had with someone else while he and Felix were estranged.

Leaning on the banister surrounding the edge of the Derdriu palace courtyard, Sylvain looks out over the ever-bustling city. Even a full-blown assault has done little to hinder its liveliness, the city having resumed most of its regular operations in between repairs within a matter of weeks, merchant ships coming back to port. Still, the news of the attack on Derdriu by remnants of the Imperial army had sent a wave of anxiety throughout Fódlan. Almyra’s unexpected intervention, led by none other than Claude, was pivotal in defending the capital, but Sylvain understands the urgency with which Byleth had called the lords to the capital once they were certain they were safe for the time being.

“Still lingering behind, Sylvain?”

Sylvain turns to see Byleth approach, standing up straight and bowing. “Thought I’d take a breath of fresh sea air before I return to Gautier.”

Byleth stops beside him. They haven’t changed much from the professor he knew since their days at Garreg Mach, still as unreadable as ever. “You agreed with Claude,” they note. “About staying our hand regarding Those Who Slither In the Dark.”

The decision to conceal the existence of the Agarthans was one Byleth had made after forming the United Kingdom of Fódlan, believing it would only serve to incite fear in their already wounded country. Sylvain had agreed, as did many others, that it was their battle to fight, their burden to bear. After all, the Agarthans had managed to survive for centuries, lying in wait to exact their revenge on the country nurtured by the Goddess — Sylvain understood that they couldn’t afford to let themselves grow complacent, nor to let the Agarthans take advantage of any divisions in their country as they did before. But this attack, so long after the war, has shown that something has slipped past their notice. He knows that more than anyone else, Byleth feels responsible.

“No one would disagree that we must root them out,” Sylvain says quietly. “But Claude is right. It’ll do no good for us to act when all we have are suspicions, especially now that we know of their tactics of impersonation and deception. The Adrestian Empire had been manipulated, just as we had been. There are many who still believe that those who reside in the lands of the former empire are loyalists by default. We should be careful not to feed their prejudices, to repeat the same mistakes we’ve made before, as we once did with Duscur.”

Byleth sighs, a rare show of weakness. Even for the professor, with all their resilience, with the power of the Goddess resting within them, the responsibilities of being the leader of Fódlan are not easy to bear. “You’re right,” they say. “We should focus on recovering first and foremost. On protecting our people.”

“I’ll continue to ensure our alliances hold strong,” Sylvain assures them. “Now that it’s apparent that Claude has assumed the throne in Almyra, I’m sure he and Lorenz are discussing terms of a treaty as we speak. We have good relations with Sreng in the north, with Brigid in the west, and it’s my hope that it will continue to improve. It’s important for us to have allies in times like this.”

Byleth nods in agreement. “I appreciate the help you’ve provided over the years, Sylvain. I know I’ve asked much of you.”

“Not at all,” Sylvain says lightly. “You know how I was back then, professor. I was surprised you trusted me to manage such a large area, even despite how much I’ve changed since you met me.”

“You were the only one I knew I could trust with that task,” they say quietly. “Because I knew only you would be willing to see it through.”

Sylvain lets out a quiet laugh. “House Gautier may be one of the last houses standing in the region, but it’s not the only one holding the old kingdom up.”

A few moments of silence pass, the wind whistling as a breeze passes, the seagulls calling in the distance. Byleth glances at him. “How long has it been now?” They ask quietly.

Sylvain follows their gaze to his left hand, where he absently twists a ring on his finger. He smiles tightly, clasping his hands behind his back. “Coming up on ten years.”

Byleth hums, something like sympathy, before they look out toward the city. “I do miss our spars every now and then.”

-

The ride back to Gautier takes a few days longer than usual as he stops to speak with lords and townships in his territory, to assuage their fears of another potential war, only asking them to be vigilant, to report even the pettiest bandit attack. The last thing they need is widespread panic causing more problems for them.

It’s a quiet, unremarkable night when Sylvain finally makes it to the Gautier manor. The guards look unusually relieved to see him — then again, he had ridden to Derdriu without an escort, which was perhaps unwise, but he didn’t want to pull soldiers away in case nearby towns needed to be defended. He stables his horse and enters the manor, eager to rest after the long journey, too exhausted to question the odd noisiness of the manor, attendants greeting him before hurrying off, pots and pans clanging from the kitchen in between muffled shouts.

“My Lord,” the head maid, Lena, exclaims when she sees him, as she quickly bows and approaches. “I know you’ve had a long journey but —”

“Lena, whatever it is, surely it can wait a few hours,” Sylvain says as he makes his way to his bedroom. While very capable, Lena has always been a bit of an anxious type, which almost certainly didn’t make it easy for her to look after him when he was a boy; he knows he’s responsible for at least half of her grey hairs. Still, Lena’s hurried footsteps follow him up the stairs as she struggles to catch up to his longer strides.

“ — I wasn’t informed _at all_ and while I’m sure something like this would not have slipped your mind, it pains me to admit we were not quite prepared for such a thing so we have all been doing our best to —”

All of the words going in one ear and out the other, Sylvain only nods tiredly, hoping that will assuage her concerns as he finally makes it to his room, shutting the door behind him to softly end the conversation. Returning to silence, he sighs, trudging forward into the moonlit room. While he does enjoy staying at inns, finding the muffled sounds of other people moving about at odd hours strangely comforting, there was nothing like sleeping in one’s own bed. Tossing his cloak onto his armchair before yanking his boots off one by one, he collapses onto his bed with a heavy sigh, only to land on what feels like a hard lump. He blinks. Not a lump, he realizes, as it lets out a muffled grunt and an annoyed “You’re heavy”.

Sylvain slowly lifts himself off the bed. Thoroughly awake now, he stands, lighting a lamp before he looks around, spotting the dirt-streaked clothes, muddy boots, and worn leather armor strewn on the floor, a pair of swords resting upright in their sheathes against the nightstand. Moments pass before a messy head of midnight blue hair emerges from under his covers, turning to shoot Sylvain a bleary-eyed glare.

He wonders if he’s dreaming. His heart lurches, thuds hard against his chest. “Felix?” Sylvain breathes.

Felix slowly sits up, the blankets pooling around his waist. His hair cascades far past his shoulders now, nearly mid-back, the lines under his eyes deepened, but little else has changed — it is, unmistakably, Felix, still as dour as ever. A few moments pass — Felix glances away, scratching his neck, then back at him again. “You’ve aged,” he finally says flatly.

“That tends to happen when time passes,” Sylvain returns faintly, not even having the mental capacity to process being offended by the comment. Just hearing Felix’s voice after so long makes him feel as though he’s lost his breath. “I — What are you doing here?”

Felix rubs his eyes, letting out a yawn. “I had asked Lena to prepare a room for me,” he answers. “She put me here in the meantime. Said you wouldn’t mind.”

Moments pass, the real question left between them, unanswered. “Right,” Sylvain says before he shakes himself out of his reverie. “Sorry, I’m uh — a bit tired,” he says, trying to sort out his thoughts before deciding on moving toward the wardrobe to change. “Last I heard from you, you were headed to Dagda. That was two years ago, I believe.”

“I just returned to Fódlan a few weeks ago.” When Sylvain looks at him, he just shrugs. “I get seasick. I wasn’t eager to take a ship back.”

“You must be relieved to have your feet on solid ground again,” he says as he sheds his coat, his shirt. It’s strange how easy it is to slip back into conversation with Felix, as if time has hardly passed. Though he supposes that’s the kind of relationship they’ve always had — in the years of knowing each other, they’ve spent far more time apart than they’ve spent together. “Does your uncle know you’re back?”

“I visited him before I came here.” Felix slides out of the bed, picking up his swords, then his clothes. “When I arrived, your attendants told me you had been called to the capital. I’m guessing it’s about the attack.”

“You heard?”

“Arrived at port not long after it had happened so it was all anyone was talking about. The guards were vetting everyone who came through. Mercenary companies, especially.”

Sylvain nods slowly, buttoning up a fresh shirt. “Makes sense. We don’t know for certain that Dagda wasn’t involved somehow.”

Felix tosses his clothes onto the armchair along with Sylvain’s. “Dagda is nearly as big as Fódlan. They have the same problems we had — their petty infighting supplies enough distraction. I doubt they’re considering another invasion attempt when their nobles are so busy hiring sellswords to try and kill each other.”

Sylvain casts Felix a curious look. “I thought you didn’t pay attention to things like politics.”

Felix glances at him. “It’s how I made my living, going wherever the fighting was.”

“Whoever hired you must not have paid well, judging by the state of your armor,” Sylvain says, smiling when Felix scowls at him. “Still can’t help but defend the weak, can you, Felix?”

Felix’s only response is to huff. Once he’s finished dressing, Sylvain takes the chance to look at him again, scratching his days-old beard absently, wishing he had shaved so at least Felix would have seen him in a more presentable state. Felix has gained some bulk to him, though his sharp, delicate features haven’t diminished. His amber eyes are as striking as ever as Felix catches him looking at him, shifting on his feet.

“What?” He mumbles, his eyes darting away.

“Nothing,” Sylvain says quickly, crossing his arms. “I just — I’m happy to see you.”

There’s a flicker of something on Felix’s face, though it disappears too quickly for Sylvain to decipher. Felix glances around like he’s looking for an exit before setting his swords back down, then looking back at him. “You’re wearing a ring.”

“Ah.” Sylvain follows his gaze to the ring on his hand. “Well, appearances have to be kept. Your uncle had sent it to me not long ah —” he pauses, starts again, “not long after you left.”

His heart skips when Felix draws closer to look at the ring as Sylvain holds his hand out. It’s a silver band, delicately engraved with lilies, a few parts of it faded where he’s rubbed at it too many times. There’s no gem, but Sylvain prefers that — it’s easy for a stone to get caught on clothes. He chances a look at Felix, though his expression remains unreadable. “Should I be wearing one too?” Felix asks quietly.

Sylvain’s heart races. Before he can speak, there’s a knock on the door. Sylvain clears his throat. “Enter.”

The door opens — his head butler, Gerard, bows. “Your Grace, my Lord,” he greets. “Dinner is ready.”

-

As it turns out, the cooks had been rushing to prepare a feast since Felix arrived earlier in the day, anxious to welcome the long-absent duke. Felix cleans plate after plate like he’s been famished for months — it’s not as though Sylvain expected Felix’s table manners to improve, but at least the attendants seem pleased to see him enjoying the food. Little conversation is had during the meal, the both of them still tired from their respective journeys, physical and otherwise, not that Sylvain would know where to start the conversation anyway.

After dinner, Sylvain excuses himself to attend to the matters that have piled up in his absence while Felix is shown to his room. Sylvain welcomes the distraction, sitting in his study and focusing on his work instead of the questions swimming in his head he desperately wishes to ask. By the time he’s done, the manor has fallen silent as everyone has gone to bed.

As usual, instead of sleeping, Sylvain stands and stretches before he opens the cabinet by his desk, retrieving a bottle of wine and a glass. Sitting in one of the armchairs in front of the fireplace, he pours generously into his glass and takes a sip, sagging in his seat as he lets out a heavy, labored sigh.

There’s a lot on his mind — countless reports still left to sift through, decrees to draft, resources to reallocate. Though most towns do well managing on their own, bandits still remain a problem in the rural areas where their patrols are spread thin, with merchants who aren’t able to hire sellswords to defend their caravans hesitant to travel. Then there’s the matter of Those Who Slither In the Dark, deciding what their next course of action should be, what plans and preparations they’ll need to make before they decide to strike again.

And as if that wasn’t enough, Felix has returned, ten years since he left.

Sylvain takes another long drink.

“You still don’t sleep well, do you?”

Sylvain looks over his shoulder to see Felix standing in the doorway. He’s changed into clean clothes, his hair pulled back into a loose ponytail. “Not really.” Sylvain admits. He sets his glass down. “Want a drink?”

“Mm.”

Felix takes a seat in the other armchair while Sylvain retrieves another glass. While he pours, Felix looks at the small table between them, glancing through the few pieces of paper resting on it. “You kept my letters.”

Sylvain hadn’t thought to put them away. Felix’s letters were few and far between, rarely saying much aside from where he was at the time of writing the letter. Sylvain knows each one by heart anyway. “You know me.” He hands Felix his glass. “I get nostalgic.”

Felix accepts the glass. “I saw flowers on my family’s graves,” he says after he takes a drink. “My uncle said I had probably just missed you.”

“I try to visit when I’m close by, though I don’t always stop and chat,” he says, waving his hand. “You know your uncle. It becomes a whole thing.”

Felix pulls a face like he understands, nodding. “The attack on Derdriu, they suspect it to be the work of Those Who Slither In the Dark, don’t they?”

“It’s only a suspicion,” Sylvain tells him as he settles back in his chair.

“You could have contacted me.”

So he was worried. “I didn’t want to trouble you with something that might have been nothing at all.”

Felix doesn’t respond to that, only taps his fingers against his glass. Years of diplomacy have taught Sylvain the importance of carefully chosen words. He knows better than anyone else that words cannot be taken back once spoken out loud. He knows some questions have difficult answers. When it comes to Felix, it is a delicate balance to strike between being straightforward and being cautious.

“So,” Sylvain finally says, “what brought you back to Gautier?”

Felix’s finger moves along the rim of his glass. Felix lifts his glass to his lips again, takes another sip. “Do I need a reason?”

That means Felix doesn’t want to talk about it, at least, not right now. If he were younger, Sylvain probably would have kept pressing, but he knows to pick his battles now. Knows to be careful. “Not at all,” Sylvain answers. “This is your home too, after all.”

Silence settles between them as the night goes on. “So is this all you do then?” Felix asks after Sylvain has poured a second glass for them. “Work and drink and not sleep?”

“Oh, I get a few hours. Not much different from what your days are like, I’m sure.”

“Less bloodshed.”

Sylvain chuckles. “Not by much,” he says wryly. “I just get to see it less.”

The same way Felix knows when he has to let Sylvain talk, Sylvain knows when he has to let Felix have his silence. As they watch the crackling fire, he doesn’t bother trying to guess at Felix’s thoughts. It’s been too long since he’s tried. Eventually, Felix finishes his second glass, setting it down on the table. “I’m going to bed.”

Sylvain sets his glass down as well. “Wait,” he says before Felix can stand. Felix pauses, his hands resting on the arms of the chair. Before he can lose his nerve, Sylvain gets up and walks over to his desk. “If you’re going to be home for a while, I’d prefer that you not dress like you’re ready for battle around the manor. I’ll ask Lena to take some of your clothes for measurements to have new garments made for you.”

Felix doesn’t protest. Rounding his desk, Sylvain looks at the top drawer, pausing for a few moments before opening it, reaching in and pulling out a small red velvet box. He returns to Felix, setting the box down on the table. He pushes it toward him, Felix looking at it questioningly.

“A ring,” he answers before Felix can ask, settling back in his seat. “No one will notice if you don’t wear it here, but if you stay long enough for any official functions, you’ll probably need to.” He smiles. “Word travels fast around here. People in peacetime love gossip.”

Felix looks at him before he looks at the box again, before he stands, taking it with him.

Sylvain picks up his glass, takes another drink as Felix leaves, the door clicking shut behind him.

-

Sylvain would never forget how it had rained that day, ten years ago. The cold was one thing, but rain was another, and he had never liked weather that combined the two. _Very dramatic_ , he had thought idly as he sat at his desk in his study, trying to delay the inevitable.

“So what did you call me here for?”

Sitting across from him was Felix. Sylvain met his gaze, seeing emptiness that undoubtedly mirrored his own. They were both exhausted, had been since the end of the war, too focused on trying to return some semblance of order to the newly-united Fódlan, scrambling to take inventory of what was left of their houses. Sylvain’s situation had been sorted out rather quickly — his father had given him his title, no longer interested as there were no benefits for him to reap since it was determined that Crests would no longer dictate social standing. As for Felix, it was an entirely different matter.

“I know you intend to give up your title,” Sylvain finally said. “I’d like you to reconsider.”

Felix stared at him, unreadable, silent. Sylvain continued, regardless.

“Most of what used to be Faerghus has already been folded under my authority. Though this was all done at the professor’s request, I don’t want there to be concerns of another oligarchy.”

“It’s no longer my concern,” Felix said, looking away. “My uncle is next in line. Matters regarding House Fraldarius will be his problem once I leave.”

Sylvain tried to ignore it. “I’m aware. I’m also aware he’s unwilling to let you relinquish your title. That he’d rather let the house dissolve.” Felix’s gaze hardened. “You must understand where he’s coming from,” Sylvain said gently. “Lacking any heirs, he feels responsible for ensuring that House Fraldarius lasts at least one more generation.”

Sylvain waited. Felix clenched his jaw, saying nothing. He sighed.

“Regardless, the capital won’t accept an absent duke. Fraldarius can’t be left to languish without authority.” Sylvain shifted in his chair, bracing himself for what was to come. “I can manage Fraldarius for you, if you’ll allow it.”

Felix sighed heavily. “Fine. What do you need me for?”

“I would need to have the formal authority to make decisions for Fraldarius in your stead,” Sylvain said. “The easiest way to do that is for us to be married.”

Felix finally met his gaze. Sylvain forced himself to hold it, maintaining an easy smile despite his pounding heart. He pushed a piece of parchment toward Felix that he had prepared in advance. “Political marriages are uncommon these days, but not unheard of. It may be a bit deceitful, but having two houses in the region will still look better than one. Marrying me would preserve your house and title, which would honor your uncle’s wish. And I’ll be able to take care of any matters related to Fraldarius while you’re away.”

Felix scoffed. “Some things don’t change about politics,” he muttered as he read the document. “What do you get out of it?”

Sylvain leaned his elbows on his desk, sighing. “My father’s been pushing me to get married. By at least lining up an advantageous marriage, I’m hoping he’ll get off my back about it.” It was a small lie, but he figured Felix wouldn’t question it. “You’d be doing me a favor.”

Felix glanced at him, but said nothing.

“It may be official, but it’s not binding,” Sylvain explained. “I won’t hold you to any conditions. Though we’ll be married, you’re still a duke and free to do as you please. But you know how it is. Things like this need to be in writing.”

Finally, Felix set it down and reached for the quill. He signed it, then reached into his pocket, pulling out a square stamp. Dabbing it with ink, he pressed it beside his signature, marking it with the Crest of Fraldarius. “Keep my stamp,” he said, setting it down on the desk. “In case you need it for anything. I’ll have no use for it.”

Sylvain turned the paper around. “You trust me with it?”

“Whatever decisions you make, you have my support. I trust you to make the right ones. Better than me, at least,” Felix said. Then added, “And whenever you want to end this, you have the means.”

Sylvain’s heart sank. “Of course,” he said absently as he took out his own stamp from his drawer. Next to Felix’s name, he signed his own and pressed his stamp beside it as well. And that was that. He held it in his hands, looking at their names next to each other, on a document representing their union. “Well,” he declared, “we’re officially married. Congratulations to us.”

He waited for a reaction, some flicker of emotion. Felix appeared to allow a few moments to pass before speaking again. “Is there anything else?”

Carefully setting the paper aside to let the ink dry, Sylvain folded his hands together on his desk, looking at Felix with a smile. “That’s all. I appreciate you making the trip.”

Felix nodded curtly, standing. He picked up his swords, tying them to his belt. Sylvain watched calmly, despite the rapid panic that was setting in, the cold bite of fear sinking into his heart. He had known of Felix’s decision to leave not long before the war ended. Felix had told him he wanted nothing to do with his title, had no interest in serving whoever won the war, if they survived. At the time, Sylvain had thought it was just the grief, the exhaustion, that Felix would eventually come to accept his title and work with him to restore their territories, to rebuild Fódlan. Instead, Felix was leaving like he said he would, his horse ready and waiting for him at the stable.

“Felix,” he said as Felix turned to leave. “Is there truly nothing that will change your mind?”

Sylvain clung desperately to his hope when Felix stopped. But Felix didn’t turn back around. “I’ve told you before, Sylvain,” he said. “This isn’t a decision I made lightly. I’ve had plenty of time to think about it.”

“That was before the war. Things are different — will be different. We can talk about it,” Sylvain trailed off, “together.”

Felix was quiet.

“You don’t need to bear everything on your own.”

“It’s how I’ve always borne it.”

 _Liar_ , Sylvain thought, anger flaring like fire in his chest, but he pushed it down, his chair rattling back as he stood. “Then tell me this,” he demanded sharply. “What exactly am I to you?”

Moments passed, nothing heard but the rain. “What is it that you want me to say?” Felix asked, so quiet Sylvain almost couldn’t hear him. “If you wanted me to leave you with some pretty declaration of love, you should have fallen in love with someone else.”

Sylvain's hands clenched at his sides, trying to hold himself together. “It’s never been a question of whether or not we love each other,” Sylvain said, his voice shaking. “The question is why it’s not enough to get you to stay.”

Silence hung in the gulf between them. It was excruciating as he watched Felix move, watched him turn to face him. It wasn't the absence of regret that hurt the most — it was the absence of everything. There was no trace of emotion on Felix’s face — no sadness, no anger, nothing. Sylvain doesn’t know when they had drifted so far from each other, until they had become nothing but strangers. All that was left of Felix was this hollow shell of him, no trace of the man he knew — the man he loved to be seen. Sylvain didn’t know how to get him back. If he could get him back. “I’m sorry,” was all Felix said to him, looking right back at him.

Sylvain searched Felix’s face for something, anything, before letting go of his breath. The words he wanted to say stopped up in his throat as he sat back down. “Be safe, Felix,” he managed to force out, looking away.

He didn’t look up, even when he heard footsteps, even when he heard his door click shut. He buried his face in his hands, dragged his fingers through his hair, counted the seconds before he rose again to stand by the window, raindrops racing across the glass. Hollow-hearted, he watched as Felix left on his horse, disappearing into the distance until his figure became nothing but a hazy shadow in the rain, until Sylvain was absolutely certain he couldn’t see him anymore.

-

“His Grace does not seem to sleep,” Lena informs him. “I’ve tried to ask what we can do to make him feel more comfortable, but he does not offer any suggestions.”

Sitting at his desk, Sylvain hums as he reviews the budget for the month. “He’s never been one for comfort. And life as a noble is hardly as exciting as roaming the world with a sword at your side. It’ll take more than a few days for him to get settled in.” _If he stays that long_ , he reminds himself.

“Be that as it may, everyone needs rest,” Lena insists. “Those restless legs of his are going to lead him right back out the door if you’re not careful,” she warns, before adding in a prim, “my Lord.”

Sylvain finally looks up over his glasses. Lena shoots him a pointed look, eyebrows raised knowingly. Though it was public knowledge that he had been unceremoniously married to the elusive Duke Fraldarius, there were those close to him who believed it to be more than political, like the professor and his old classmates, like Lena and a few of his attendants. He supposed that was the problem with still employing someone who once supervised his childhood playdates. He sighs, setting down his glasses and his work. “Where is he?”

Lena looks satisfied as she resumes her tidying. “His Grace has gone down to the soldier’s barracks.”

The barracks are not far from the manor — the Gautier family, ever concerned with defense, had ensured that there would always be an outfit of soldiers meant to defend the border as well as the margrave if the need arose, though in recent years, they’ve mostly been diverted to patrolling the neighboring towns instead. Sylvain makes his way to the training grounds where the soldiers keep their skills sharp, plenty of dummies and targets set up for the soldiers to practice. He walks toward the sparring circle, where a familiar figure darts between three soldiers, the clangs of their weapons echoing in the air.

“He hasn’t killed anyone yet, has he?” Sylvain jokes as he approaches Kristoph. Kristoph has been captain of House Gautier’s guard for as long as Sylvain could remember, having briefly been under his command in his youth. Though Sylvain had disagreed with his father in many ways, he couldn’t deny he had somehow chosen wisely with Kristoph. Defending the Sreng border was no easy task back then, not something that could be left up to the children of nobles who had wanted a cushy station, which Sylvain once was. Kristoph was tough but fair, an exemplary leader who had managed to drill some good habits into his stubborn teenage head.

“Duke Fraldarius is a formidable opponent,” Kristoph says approvingly, watching the bout in front of them raptly. “The soldiers will do well to train with a skilled fighter. As much as I hate to admit it, it’s getting harder for me to keep up with these spry youths these days.”

“Nonsense. Don’t be so hard on yourself, captain,” Sylvain insists, to which Kristoph laughs.

“I appreciate your reassurance, my Lord, but there are only so many ways I can change my technique to keep them guessing.”

A training lance slides across the sand and hits Sylvain’s boot before it rattles to a stop. Sylvain turns to see the three soldiers lying on the ground in pain, disarmed, while Felix stands over them with his training sword in hand. Felix glances over his shoulder, their eyes meeting before he makes his way over.

“My apologies, Your Grace. It appears my soldiers are not quite up to standards,” Kristoph says with a bow as Felix approaches.

Felix casts another glance back at the soldiers as they struggle back onto their feet. “They could use some improvement.”

“That’s high praise coming from him,” Sylvain assures Kristoph, knowing he was going to subject the soldiers to a grueling training regimen for their embarrassing showing in front of the duke.

Felix turns his attention to him. “Spar with me,” he says — demands, really.

Sylvain blinks before letting out a nervous laugh. “Oh, Felix, it’s been a long time since I’ve picked up a lance. I’m afraid I won’t put up a very good fight.”

Felix scowls. “Just because you’re margrave doesn’t mean you should allow yourself to become useless.”

Beside him, Kristoph barely restrains a snort. “Excuse me, my Lord,” he coughs, bowing his head despite the grin on his face. “It’s been a while since I’ve heard anyone speak to you like that.”

With Felix staring him down, Sylvain can only sigh, shedding his coat as he walks over to the weapon rack. He shakes his head when a soldier attempts to hand him a training lance. “The duke would be insulted,” he sighs as he retrieves a steel lance instead. Felix prefers a spar with real weapons. As expected, Felix reaches for a steel sword too.

The handful of soldiers watching on the sidelines shift uneasily, perhaps unsure of who they should defend if blood were to be drawn. “First one to yield?” Sylvain asks as he twirls the lance back and forth, getting used to its heavy weight again.

Felix nods, his eyes on him as he takes his stance with his sword. Sylvain smiles. He’s immune to Felix’s glares, but he’s never prepared for how striking his eyes are, never prepared for the weight of his gaze. It’s always been a weakness of his, being distracted by beautiful things, and Felix is no exception, but an advantage he does have is that he’s watched Felix train for years. He knows the way his body moves.

Sylvain tests him first with a jab, which Felix dodges easily. In theory, a lance has the range a sword doesn’t, but Felix grew up a sword fighter among lance wielders. At least Sylvain knows better than to underestimate him. He’s careful to calculate the distance between them, stepping back when Felix inches closer, but Felix is faster and much stronger than before, the force of his relentless parries difficult to recover from each time he blocks. As the spar drags on, Sylvain almost regrets not keeping up with his training as Felix wears him down steadily, hardly breaking a sweat, like a predator playing with his prey. It might almost be enough for Sylvain to concede with an early yield, but he knows how much Felix hates it when he thinks Sylvain is letting him win.

Unable to fend Felix off at a distance, Sylvain waits for just the right moment when Felix rushes toward him, locking their weapons against one another with a harsh clang. Their eyes meet again, Felix pushing as Sylvain pushes back, though he’s rapidly losing strength.

“Don’t worry about embarrassing me in front of everyone now,” Sylvain says lightly, masking the strain in his voice as best he can. “I know you can do better than this.”

Felix’s eyes narrow. “You’re welcome to yield,” he says, trying to shove him back.

Sylvain grins. “Well, I wouldn’t want to deprive you of your fun.”

His glare only intensifies as he pushes harder. Sylvain knows how Felix fights. The years of surviving on his own has no doubt strengthened his instincts — if Felix sees an opening, Sylvain knows he’ll take it. Felix’s blade screeches against the shaft of the lance as Sylvain gives under Felix’s weight — he bites back a cry as the blade cuts into his shoulder before he’s able to jerk his lance upwards into Felix’s wrist, hitting it hard enough to send his sword flying out of his hand. But Felix recovers fast — lacking a weapon, he resorts to a spell, a blinding bolt of thunder more than enough to distract Sylvain as Felix relieves him of his lance. Hardly able to tell what’s up and down, it’s probably a good thing that Sylvain’s thrown to the ground, his wrists immediately pinned, letting out another grunt as he feels a knee press on his chest.

“Do you yield?” He hears Felix pant.

By the time he blinks away the spots in his vision, Sylvain sees Felix looking down at him. His hair has fallen loose from his ponytail, strands sticking to the sweat on his flushed cheeks, his neck. _How nostalgic_ , Sylvain thinks, the familiar image reminding him of the days at Garreg Mach, of a time when the warmth he felt had been strange and incomprehensible. “I yield,” Sylvain replies, breathless.

Felix doesn’t let go and Sylvain doesn’t move. Sylvain finally blinks, breaking their gaze when he hears Kristoph clear his throat. “Alright, get back to your training,” he barks, shooing away the onlookers to start their penalty drills. Much to his dismay, Felix climbs off of him, letting him get back onto his feet.

“You’ve slowed down,” Felix tells him. He looks at Sylvain’s shoulder. “Any slower and you might not have escaped with just a shallow cut.”

“I’m not that out of practice,” Sylvain grumbles, though his aching muscles say otherwise. “Besides, I like to think we’re still on good enough terms that you’ll take care not to kill me.”

Felix hums, an ambiguous response, before stepping toward him. He tugs Sylvain’s collar aside, his hand hovering over his shoulder before he murmurs under his breath — the warm shiver of magic brushes over his skin, the stinging pain fading as it mends the cut.

“Thank you,” Sylvain says, turning to see the faint pink line. “You didn’t need to waste a spell on that.”

“I don’t need to reserve my magic here,” Felix says. Sylvain catches Felix’s hand. “What are you —”

Sylvain turns Felix’s wrist, touching his fingers gently against the reddened skin. “Does it hurt?” He asks, looking at Felix. Felix only stares back at him. “It felt like I hit you pretty hard.”

Felix looks down, turning his hand back and forth to test his wrist. “It’s fine,” he murmurs. “You’re overestimating your strength.”

Sylvain huffs a laugh. “Well, that’s a relief for once.”

Felix doesn’t pull his hand out of Sylvain’s hold. It isn’t until Sylvain lets go that his hand withdraws back to his side. Sylvain looks at the both of them, their clothes covered in sand and dirt from their tussle. He clears his throat. “You’ll probably want to clean up,” Sylvain says, trying to pat down his clothes, though his shirt is already a lost cause with the tear and the bloodstain. “I can call for someone to draw a bath for you —”

“No need,” Felix decides before he turns to walk back to the manor. “You’ll do.”

Sylvain blinks before he quickly moves to follow him. “You’re really putting me to work today,” he says lightly, falling into step beside him.

“You’ve spent far too much time idle.” Their eyes meet; the heat of Felix’s gaze is familiar. “It’s about time someone did.”

-

Shadows crawl across the ceiling of his bedroom as the sun sets. A beam of deep orange light filters through the curtains, drawing a slanted line across Sylvain’s chest, up Felix’s back, and ending on his shoulder. Felix breathes softly, still asleep. Sylvain remembers thinking how cute it was that Felix fell asleep after sex. During the war, sometimes tiring him out like this was the only way Sylvain could get him to rest. It’s surprising how easy it is to fall back into old habits, despite all the years between them, the distance. He supposes things that don’t require words are easier. Lightly running his fingers through Felix’s hair spread out on the pillow, Sylvain tries not to think about the years Felix has spent away from him, the countless nights, tries not to linger on the thought of Felix finding solace in a stranger to make it through the night, of someone else knowing him the way he does.

 _It’s curious_ , he thinks as he presses his lips to the back of Felix’s neck, _how I still think of him as mine_.

Felix stirs, the blankets rustling as he shifts. Sylvain pulls back, leans up on his arm to watch as Felix rolls onto his back and stretches, scrubbing a hand over his face. He’s still tired, Sylvain can tell, but Felix has always been disciplined when it comes to naps, able to resist falling back asleep once he’s woken up. While Felix still has his defenses down, Sylvain kisses the corner of his lips, still a little tender and swollen from earlier, judging by the faint whine Felix emits.

“Want that bath now?” Sylvain asks as he pulls away.

Felix only grunts, which is close enough to a 'yes'. Sylvain climbs out of the warmth of the blankets with some difficulty — he’s even sorer now — grimacing at the tackiness of his skin as he walks past the clothes scattered on the floor, carelessly thrown in their haste to get to the bed. He reminds himself to pick them up later before he goes into the bathroom to start the water.

Felix comes padding in as Sylvain’s sitting on the rim of the tub, waiting for it to fill, damp and shivering after showering off. “You can use it first,” Felix says, moving to rinse himself down too.

Sylvain yawns, still drowsy. A nice hot bath isn’t going to help matters much either. “There’s enough room for the two of us,” he says as he dips his hand in, testing the water.

He does still go in first, but makes room when Felix walks over, the water gently swirling around as he slides in, their legs tangling together. Felix sighs as he sinks into the water, resting his head back against the rim of the tub and closing his eyes. They sit in silence, soaking as steam rises from the water, the room turning hot and muggy. Sylvain looks at Felix, having been too preoccupied when they were in bed. Taking a moment to admire the fresh red marks dotting Felix's body, he looks at his new scars — a clean long line across his chest, a jagged one on his bicep that intersects with a small crescent-shaped scar he got when he was 7, a star-like scar that sits on his left shoulder, another on his left thigh. For a decade, it’s not much, but he knows that not all wounds leave scars behind.

Felix’s foot moves against the side of his leg. Sylvain wonders where the lines of their boundaries lie now. He sinks a hand into the water, touches Felix’s calf, squeezing the firm muscle lightly. Felix doesn’t move. He moves his hand up to his knee. Still no reaction. Then up to his thigh, his thumb stroking the soft, tender flesh. Felix slowly cracks open an eye at that.

“Haven’t had enough?” Felix asks quietly. Sylvain hears the playful lilt in Felix's voice, notices the way it pitches low, the way it does when he’s flirting. It still sends a violent shiver down his spine, still makes warmth pool in his belly.

“No,” Sylvain answers honestly, leaving it there for Felix to deal with, running his hand up and down his leg idly until the water turns lukewarm.

They climb out and wipe themselves dry before going back into the bedroom. Sylvain picks up the clothes off the floor, tossing them with the rest of his dirty clothes before he retrieves a fresh set. “I can go get your clothes from your room once I dress,” he says.

“Just lend me some of yours,” Felix says as he sits on the edge of Sylvain’s bed, rubbing the water out of his hair with a towel before tying it up into a loose bun. “I’ll change after dinner. I’m starving.”

After a moment, Sylvain takes out another set of clothes and tosses it on the bed for Felix to grab. Once dressed, they leave the room together, heading to the dining room. Sylvain calls for dinner before they take their usual seats across from each other. Nothing out of the ordinary, but the looks the kitchen staff exchange as they set the table do not escape him.

It is silent as they eat, save for their silverware clinking against their plates, as Felix is absorbed in the food and Sylvain is absorbed in Felix. His shirt is too big on Felix, the collar too wide to hide the marks he had left down the column of his throat. He finds himself unable to look away, his thumb brushing against the inside of his palm as he slowly twists his ring.

-

Days turn to weeks turn to months, spring into summer, and Felix still hasn’t left. He melds seamlessly into Sylvain’s life instead, unobtrusive yet impossible to be ignored. Not long after Felix’s return, the attendants had started passing along work to Felix, which, to his credit, he takes in stride; though Felix’s line of thinking tends to be more straightforward, he is at least blessed with common sense and not so prideful as to not ask for Sylvain’s help. They also begin looking to him to make decisions about day-to-day matters, from what their meals should be to when they should prepare tea to what he’d like them to do about upcoming visits from other lords, which seem to only annoy him.

“You _are_ the master of the house,” Sylvain points out when Felix complains to him about it. With Felix attempting to scare off every attendant that looks like they might want to approach him with his deathly glare, the menial tasks can't be left undone. Such were the responsibilities of a noble. “You can tell them to keep directing those matters to me instead.”

As for Sylvain, he’s busy enough that he’s able to avoid dwelling on Felix’s presence for very long. They stay out of each other’s way for the most part when they’re working, with Sylvain in his study and Felix in his room, which Felix occasionally poking into his study to retrieve something or ask him a question. Still, Felix always lingers on the edges of his awareness — the sound of his footsteps, light and purposeful as they pass the door of his study, his voice easily distinguished from the rest when he speaks to the attendants, his figure in the distance the easiest to spot as he spars with the soldiers in his free time. Most of the time they spend together is during meals or late at night when they sit in Sylvain’s study to talk at the end of the day. Their conversations are carefully kept to general topics and current events, to what needs to be done in various parts of the territory they manage, which lords they need to speak to, about the continuing efforts to find the remaining Agarthans. Despite needing to avoid the most sensitive subjects, it’s nice to have someone to speak to casually. After all, they were friends before they were lovers, before they were — whatever they are now.

That said, they sleep in separate rooms — usually. Even though he’s grown out of most of his bad habits, Sylvain isn’t quite able to stop himself from flirting with Felix, especially when Felix is so receptive to his advances, smiling faintly as though he's preening under the attention. Shyness has never been a problem for them and it seems that it never will be, seeing as how natural it feels to kiss Felix when Sylvain finds him in his bed, for Felix to kiss him back, to touch each other the way they used to. The pull he’s always felt toward Felix still lingers and he knows from experience that it’s futile to resist it.

Still, Sylvain is careful not to push his luck, to not let himself grow too used to Felix's presence in his life again. He still doesn’t know why Felix left, why Felix hasn’t left again. And even he isn’t so drawn to pain that he’s willing to make the mistake he did before.

-

In search of his usual afternoon snack, Sylvain goes down to the kitchen, only to see Felix standing at the table behind a large bowl.

“Funny I should run into you here,” Sylvain says as he walks over, looking around the table curiously. “What are you making?”

Felix cracks two eggs into the bowl. “Cake.”

Sylvain blinks. “Cake?”

Felix scoops some flour out of the large bag off to the side and dumps it into the bowl, a plume of dust rising in the air. He picks up a lemon, pauses, and looks around. “I need…” he trails off. “I have no idea what it’s called.”

Sylvain tries not to laugh. “Like a knife? To cut it?”

Felix looks at him like he’s an idiot. “I need the skin,” he explains. “But I need it in shreds. There’s a tool specifically meant for this.”

It’s been quite a few years since Sylvain's done any cooking and he doesn’t know a thing about baking. At this point, Sylvain thinks he should fetch one of the cooks, but he wants to be helpful. “Maybe a fork could work?” He suggests, walking over to the silverware drawer.

A fork absolutely doesn’t work, but Felix manages to scrape some of the rind off into the bowl, squeezing some of the juice in for good measure. The sharp citrus scent perfumes the kitchen as Sylvain watches Felix measure out a few more ingredients into the bowl before mixing it. “I thought you didn’t like sweets,” he says as Felix pours the batter into a pan and carefully moves it into the oven with a wooden peel.

“Lysithea taught me how to make this.”

“Wow, all the way back at Garreg Mach? And you didn’t invite me?” Sylvain pouts. “I would have loved to see your first attempts at baking. I’ll bet she gave you an earful.”

Felix shoots him an annoyed look as he adjusts the placement of the pan until he’s satisfied. “I came across her cottage during my travels a few years ago. I stayed with her and her parents for a while.”

“Oh,” Sylvain utters, a little surprised as Felix sets the peel aside. “How is she?”

Felix wipes his hands on a cloth. There’s a moment of silence before he answers. “I left for Dagda not long after she passed.”

The light mood takes a sharp, downward turn. They’re both no strangers to loss, Felix especially. Felix mourns in his own way, however much he tries to hide it — it doesn’t surprise Sylvain to see the pain on Felix’s face, but the depth of it does. “I’m sorry,” Sylvain says, not knowing what else to say.

“We always knew it was coming,” Felix says evenly. “For what it's worth, she went peacefully.”

Sylvain didn’t stay in touch with his former classmates as much as he would have liked, most of them too busy with their own lives. He had known about Lysithea’s condition, knew that House Ordelia had been dissolved, that she left with her family to live out the rest of her shortened life. He had always been meaning to find a way to contact her, to see how she was doing, if there was anything she needed. “Her family,” Sylvain finally says. “Are they taken care of?”

Felix glances at him. “There’s a boy who helps around the house and delivers things they can’t get on their own. The money Lysithea left them will be enough to last their lifetime.”

“Good.” Sylvain nods absently. “That’s good.”

It hurts to lose another friend. But what Sylvain hates is the petty jealousy that rises with his grief, the sour bitter feeling that arises when he’s reminded of the parts of Felix untouched by him, the things in his life Sylvain had no knowledge of, ten years missing between them that a part of him still believes should have belonged to him. _It’s not about us_ , Sylvain reminds himself harshly, frustrated with himself. Lysithea was clearly important to Felix, was there for him when Sylvain couldn’t be. Sylvain thinks fondly of her sharp-tongued remarks, had admired her unshakeable resolve after he had learned why she was so driven to achieve so much so quickly. She was one of the strongest people he knew.

“She spent a lot of her time baking new things,” Felix tells him after a long silence as he turns back to the oven. “She came up with this recipe at Garreg Mach to try and get me to finally eat something she made. She ended up teaching me how to make it too.”

Felix slides the pan off the peel and onto the counter, steam rising from the pan. The cake is a little lumpy, a little burnt, but it smells good. Felix smacks his hand away when he tries to touch it. “Wait until it cools,” he gripes, though he pokes at it with a knife anyway

Quietly, they watch the cake like it’ll make it cool faster. It reminds him of their childhood, the four of them sneaking into the kitchen and poking their heads over the counter like hungry mice, hoping the cook will feed them something to tide them over until dinner. In the end, he’s too impatient, egging Felix on to turn it out onto the table once the pan is warm to touch.

“It might not be very good,” Felix warns, uncertain as he cuts out a piece. “I’ve only made it a handful of times on my own. It’s hit or miss. Sometimes it turns out more like bread.”

Sylvain takes a bite, chewing thoughtfully. Aside from the burnt parts, the cake is pillowy and soft, mostly tart from the lemon with a hint of sweetness. Sylvain would probably put some honey on it, but he can see why Lysithea thought it would suit Felix’s taste. “It’s good,” he says, finishing the rest of the piece. Felix looks at him like he doesn’t believe him as Sylvain breaks off a piece and holds it out to him. “It is, I promise.”

Felix lets him feed him the piece — the persistent furrow of his brow disappears as he eats, pleased. Sylvain smiles. No matter what, it makes him happy to see Felix happy.

“Can you teach me the recipe too?” Sylvain says as he cuts himself another. “I can make it for you some time. I mean — it probably won’t be as good as yours or Lysithea’s but —”

Sylvain trails off, wondering if he’s overstepped. When he looks at Felix, there’s a faint smile on his lips now too as he takes another bite.

“I’d like that,” Felix says and it warms him all over again.

-

The formalities of their marriage and Felix’s duties as duke have always been a little murky. There was obviously no wedding, only an informal announcement passed on to the lords and townships of his territory. The capital had accepted their union and House Gautier’s regency over Fraldarius without any argument, though Sylvain suspects Byleth had the final say over it. Aside from the marriage itself, Sylvain tried to avoid engaging in any additional deception, though there were rare occasions when he needed a duke’s authority and used Felix’s signature and stamp, acting as though Felix had stopped by briefly before setting off again. He let the heads of houses and lords make whatever assumptions they wanted to make about Felix’s seemingly constant absence, rarely being asked directly about it.

But when Felix returned and they were beginning to receive regular correspondence signed with his name, they were bound to be curious. Though Felix doesn’t say much when lords come to the manor with appeals and matters to discuss, they often don’t know how to react with Felix in the room, having been so used to only seeing Sylvain. Sylvain will admit it’s a bit amusing to watch them flounder, not knowing if they should be waiting for Felix’s opinion or ignore him altogether, while Felix stares them down, probably bored. Nobles talk, attendants talk, messengers talk, and soon enough it becomes known even to the townsfolk that Duke Fraldarius has been residing in the manor for some time now.

It isn't particularly efficient to have them both in Gautier, but Sylvain already has a system in place to manage the entire territory comfortably from his manor. That aside, he doesn’t dare to even imply he wants Felix to be away from him, so he doesn’t broach the subject of Felix returning to Fraldarius. Felix seems relatively content as far as Sylvain can tell, and Sylvain isn’t too keen on changing any conditions that might affect that. Unfortunately, their precarious domestic arrangement is threatened as his first diplomatic trip since Felix has returned approaches before he even realizes it.

Standing in front of Felix’s door, Sylvain feels unusually nervous. His attendants cast him encouraging looks as they pass but otherwise leave him to suffer. Finally, he takes a breath, knocking on the door. “Enter,” he hears Felix say.

Felix’s room is not unlike his room from their academy days, though slightly tidier as he’s no longer going through swords like paper. Cramped with the addition of the desk that Sylvain had moved in for him, the room is a standard guest bedroom, a chair and table tucked in the corner, a wardrobe. It’s clear to see that most of Felix’s care for this room is directed toward his bed, the only other place he spends his time when in his room. Felix glances at him in greeting, focused on whatever he’s working on.

Standing in the doorway, Sylvain looks at Felix, trying to collect his thoughts. Instead, he's distracted by Felix's clothes, of all things. It had taken a while for Felix to fully abandon his old attire for the clothes Sylvain had ordered to be made for him. Now his shirts were clean and pressed, his coat properly tailored to fit, wearing the new gaiters Sylvain had ordered as well, knowing Felix was so fond of them. He still ties his hair up like it's an afterthought, but he looks like the duke he was meant to be.

“Did you need something?” Felix finally speaks up curtly when Sylvain has stood silent for too long.

"Yes, I ah—" Sylvain clasps his hands behind his back and tries again. "I wanted to let you know I’ll be going to Sreng for a three-day meeting in a few days."

Felix still doesn’t look up. “I’d heard. Is there anything I’ll need to take care of while you’re away?”

Sylvain rubs at his ring. “Actually, I’d like you to come with me,” he finally manages to push out. Felix does look up at that. “I don’t know if you’ve had the chance to go to Sreng, but it’s a nice place. The meeting is nothing like the stuffy ones we have here — we’ll mostly be outside. The Sreng are excellent hosts and they’ve got great food.” He pauses. “It’ll be —” he looks for the right turn of phrase: an experience, a change of scenery, a chance for him to stretch his legs where Sylvain can see him, without worrying he’ll disappear on him again — “fun.”

Felix seems to consider it for a moment. “Very well then,” he says, returning his attention to his work.

Sylvain blinks, surprised; he had actually expected some resistance. Aside from keeping up with his training with the soldiers, Felix has become a bit of a homebody, usually staying in the manor; perhaps all the years of travel have taken away the novelty of it. “Oh, good,” Sylvain says faintly, relieved, before clearing his throat. “I’ll let Kristoph know.”

He realizes that this will be the first official function he will be attending with Felix — as his husband. Suddenly at a loss of what to do, he gives Felix an awkward bow even though he’s never done that before, Felix looking amused as he straightens, before making a hasty exit out of the room, his face burning with embarrassment.

-

It’s a few days’ ride to their designated meeting area in Sreng, past the mountain range. Sylvain is used to the ride and Goddess knows the places Felix has been, so it’s no trouble as they make their way north with Kristoph and a couple of guards accompanying them, making their usual stops along the way.

“Is this necessary?” Felix grumbles as Sylvain brushes his hair the morning after their last night in an inn before they make the final stretch to Sreng.

Sectioning out Felix’s long hair, Sylvain begins to carefully fashion it into a neat braid. “The Sreng traditionally keep their hair tied. It would reflect badly upon me if I left your hair uncared for in that messy ponytail of yours,” he tells him, smiling when Felix makes a face in the mirror. “I don’t want them thinking you’re some kind of ruffian.”

When he reaches the end, he ties it off with Felix’s hair tie, tucking away the stray strands as he takes a look, humming. It’s not bad for his first attempt. It’s then when he notices the ring on Felix’s finger — the one he had given him. Without thinking, Sylvain reaches for his hand, lifting it, though Felix doesn’t seem to mind. “This counts as an official function, doesn’t it?” Felix says.

Sylvain brushes his thumb over the ring. His heart presses against his throat. “Does it fit okay?”

Felix nods. It’s a gold band, inlaid with an amber stone. He didn’t think he’d ever see Felix actually wear it, even though he’d had it made with Felix in mind. Felix had already left by then. Something like wishful thinking, he thinks, or perhaps hope. His attention is pulled away by the knock on the door — likely Kristoph letting him know the horses are ready.

Swallowing down his emotions, Sylvain pulls away, smiling. “Let's go then.”

They make it through the mountains without trouble, their horses used to the heavy winds as they ascend. The air is still again once they make it down the craggy cliffs, a fog settling over them, but Sylvain manages to spot the forward guard, lifting his hand to wave him over.

“ _Lord Gautier_ ,” the guard greets, nodding to Kristoph as well. His eyes land on Felix, curious. “ _I wasn’t informed you were bringing a guest_.”

“ _I apologize. I wasn’t able to send word in advance_ ,” Sylvain says. “ _This is my partner, Duke Fraldarius. I hope it’s alright for him to join us_.”

The guard raises his eyebrows briefly at his name, but nods. “ _Of course. Your family is always welcome_ ,” he says, pulling on the reins to turn his horse around, escorting them to the camp.

Felix pulls up alongside him. “I didn’t know you spoke Sreng.”

“I studied it when we were at the academy. The library was the only place I could get my hands on Sreng texts.”

“I’m surprised you got anything done between your skirtchasing,” Felix says flatly.

Sylvain grins. “Well, I did only have a basic grasp of the language when I first visited Sreng,” he concedes. “But I’ve managed to improve with practice. I can teach you a few words if you’d like.”

“I know a little,” Felix says. “I’ve come across a few Sreng traders. That’s your doing, I’m guessing?”

“They’re a growing nation,” Sylvain replies. “Opening up trade with them was a logical choice.”

Though a centralized city has begun to form in recent years, the Sreng remain largely nomadic, moving with the seasons. They hold their meeting around the same time every year when they travel along the southernmost edge. After decades of war with Fódlan, amongst themselves, the Sreng clans have formed a loose coalition as a condition of their treaty with Fódlan. Like Duscur, each clan serves a specific role for the entire coalition — farming, fishing, trading, defense; the clan he meets with essentially functions as their diplomatic arm, with a council made up of representatives from every clan.

Soon enough, they see smoke rising on the horizon, the camp in sight, a few of the Sreng busy with setting up tents. The herd of wild horses tended to by the Sreng graze on bits of green grass still poking out of the icy ground. The guard rides ahead, calling for the leader. They dismount as she emerges from the largest tent in the center. Once a general of her clan for many years, Anya now serves as Sreng’s leader, chosen to speak for the coalition.

“ _Lord Gautier_ ,” Anya greets, her booming voice filling the air. “ _You’re looking well_.”

“ _Anya, always a pleasure to see you. Thank you for allowing us to impose_ ,” Sylvain returns with a bow. He notices the curious glances the Sreng shoot toward Felix. “ _My apologies for not letting you know beforehand, but I hope you will allow me to introduce my partner, Duke Fraldarius_.”

She looks intrigued as she turns to look at him. “ _Oh? The fabled duke has finally made an appearance_.”

Upon seeing everyone’s gazes land upon him, Felix bows. “ _Hello_ ,” he says. “ _Pleased to meet you_.”

She looks him up and down critically. Felix doesn’t flinch, staring back in matched intensity. She finally hums, her eyes not leaving Felix. “ _Indeed, he looks very much like his father. The Shield_.”

Sylvain lowers his head. “ _I would like him to have this opportunity to get to know you_ ,” he says. “ _And for you to know the one I’ve chosen_.”

She hums again, smiling. “ _I look forward to it_.”

Before the formal meeting begins, they have lunch, taking the time to catch up. Sylvain listens to Anya talk about the recent weather, the good harvest, undoubtedly softening him up for whatever matter she intends to bring up later. He nods politely as she moves on to more trivial subjects, only to feel an itch on the back of his neck. He glances back to see Felix staring directly at him, desperation in his gaze as he’s surrounded by people. Quickly excusing himself, Sylvain makes his way over, giving everyone his greetings as he nudges his way to Felix’s side.

“My, you’re already so popular,” Sylvain teases as Felix struggles to listen to the frazzled Sreng translator as they try to parse the conversation with so many speakers at once. From what Sylvain can hear, it’s mostly questions about how he came to know Sylvain, why it’s taken him so long to visit, if he had brought the relic they had heard so much about, if they could look at his sword.

“What have you told them?” Felix asks quietly. There’s no doubt he’s caught on to the looks he’s been given, knowing his father’s history with Sreng.

“Just that you’re my husband,” Sylvain says, smiling when Felix casts him a look. He brushes his hand down Felix’s back. “That’s why they want to know you.”

Sylvain stays with Felix, answering questions for him until the meeting is called at the main tent. As he had anticipated, Anya wants to discuss their trade agreements, bringing up the subject of establishing outposts in Fódlan. Though traders have been allowed to travel freely, they aren’t able to travel very far inland as they lack the infrastructure to resupply without spending their money on Fódlan goods — the outposts would allow them to lower their prices and would give them a foothold to take their wares further while also serving as permanent stores where people may purchase Sreng goods. It’s a reasonable enough proposal, but it is, as always, a matter of territory, receiving permission from the local lords to build on their land, not to mention the costs and time it will take to implement. Unfortunately, bureaucracy is not a problem the Sreng are sympathetic to and the idea of land ownership is a concept they simply find ridiculous. As Sylvain tries to explain this to them over their displeased murmurs, Felix sits beside him, quietly listening to the translator.

Taking a breath after the meeting is adjourned for the day, Sylvain looks forward to a brief break before he spends the night trying to think of a solution the Sreng will be happy with. He looks over when he hears Felix call out to one of their soldiers, asking for their map.

“What do you need that for?” Sylvain asks, curious as Felix takes it from the soldier.

-

At the meeting the next day, Sylvain spreads out the map of Fódlan in front of Anya. The council leans forward to look at the neatly drawn lines criss-crossing all over the map.

“ _Duke Fraldarius has traveled Fódlan extensively. He’s familiar with the movements of our own traders, who in turn know the best ways to traverse the terrain. He has drawn their routes for you so that your traders may utilize the same ones, as well as the shortcuts that can save a few days of travel_ ,” Sylvain explains as Anya looks over the map. “ _I understand your frustration with our process. In the meantime, I hope this will lessen the strain on your traders while I speak to the lords in my territory about allowing the development of an outpost, if you agree to bear the costs_.”

Anya hums, pleased. “ _Fair enough, Lord Gautier_.” She looks to Felix as well. “ _This will help us greatly, Duke Fraldarius_.”

The rest of the meeting goes smoothly, all other matters being less urgent. As a result, the meeting ends early, leaving them free for the rest of the day, which Sylvain intends to use to catch up on the sleep he had missed the night before after staying up with Felix to help him draw the lines on the map.

“You really helped me out,” Sylvain tells him as they head back to their tent. “Thank you.”

Also tired and ready for sleep, Felix shrugs it off. “That’s what I’m here for, isn’t it?”

As is tradition, the third and last day is a free day, a day to ease any tensions that might have arisen during their meeting. With this being Felix’s first visit to Sreng, they’re eager to introduce them to their culture and customs, Felix perking up when he’s invited to hunt with them. That unfortunately involves catching one of their wild horses first, though Sylvain quickly comes to his rescue — “ _Let me show off to him a bit_ ,” Sylvain says to the hunters when he takes the rope from Felix. The horses aren’t completely wild — they’re broken in and then rotated out regularly so they have ample time to recover, so it’s only a matter of getting them to remember their training before getting thrown off.

“Still not fond of them?” Sylvain says, breathless as he pulls the tamed horse over to Felix. He’s pleased to see the faintly impressed look on Felix’s face, though it’s quickly replaced with slight apprehension when the horse snorts.

“I barely tolerate my own,” Felix grumbles as he gingerly pats the horse’s muzzle, making sure Sylvain has a firm grip on the rope.

“Oh stop, I know you love her,” Sylvain says with a laugh as he helps Felix up, tying off the rope before handing it to him. He catches Felix’s hand, pressing a kiss to the back of it. “Go catch us a big one, Felix.”

Felix rolls his eyes, but his lips curl up in a small smile, his thumb brushing against Sylvain’s cheek before Felix leaves to join Kristoph and the hunters.

“ _He’s an interesting man, that duke of yours_.”

Sylvain turns to see Anya stop beside him, joining him in watching the hunting party set off.

“ _Not at all who I had expected a charmer like you to choose_ ,” Anya continues. “ _He’s very different from you. Quiet, for one. Sharp-steeled. Severe, even toward you_.”

Sylvain laughs softly. “ _I suppose we do seem quite incompatible_.”

“ _But he’s different with you, as you are different with him. It is like - - - - - - -_ ,” she says. Sylvain furrows his brow. He’s never heard that word before. She smiles like she’s hiding a secret. “ _It’s a good thing_.”

“ _Thank you_ ,” is all he can really say.

Hours later, the hunting party returns with a great bounty of game and the cooks get to work while they clean up. By sunfall, large platters of roasted meats and stewed vegetables are laid out for everyone to partake, along with many jugs of wine. Sreng cuisine is mostly smoky and spicy, many of the dishes covered in some form of bright red chili pepper.

“Is it spicy?” Sylvain asks Felix as he holds his bowl of plain rice and vegetables. “Like really spicy?”

Felix eats the food with great relish, not even batting an eye. The cooks had been delighted to have found a foreigner who can properly appreciate their food. “Too spicy for you,” he determines. “You’ve never tried it?”

“Well, I’m not so rude as to refuse their food,” Sylvain says defensively. “But I’m not exactly keen on embarrassing myself in front of the Sreng. Again.” Though they had gotten a great laugh out of seeing Sylvain drunk after mistakenly draining a bottle of wine in an attempt to soothe his burning mouth.

Felix snorts. After he finishes his bite, he scans the dishes before picking up a large braised pepper, taking a small nibble of it. “Here, you can handle this one.”

He holds it out to him expectantly. Shooting Felix a wary look, he leans forward and takes a cautious bite. Felix is right — it’s not as bad as it looks, the sweetness of the sauce tempering the mild heat of the pepper, but there’s still a faint burn lingering in his mouth after he swallows.

Felix clicks his tongue disapprovingly at the pained look on Sylvain’s face. “You need to train yourself or else you’ll never be able to handle it,” he says as he finishes the rest of the pepper.

“It’s always training with you,” Sylvain grumbles as he takes a large bite of rice.

“Maybe I’ll ask them to teach me how to make a few of these dishes,” Felix says as he plucks up a few more peppers. “You can practice at home where you’re free to embarrass yourself in front of everyone in the manor instead.”

After dinner, cushions, blankets, and low tables are set out around the bonfire as the night continues with music and dancing, more drinking. Again, Felix is pulled into the merriment while Sylvain watches with amusement, pouring himself cups of wine as Felix picks up on the dance with impressive speed. He’s always had a knack for dancing. It’s not much different from some of the sword techniques he uses.

“So you weren’t lying when you said you were married.”

Sylvain turns to see Chesna standing beside him. Like Sylvain is a diplomat of Fódlan, Chesna is a diplomat of Sreng, being his main contact when they were still working out the terms of their treaty. Quite shrewd in her own right, she was instrumental in forming the coalition among the clans, being the one of the largest supporters of peace between their countries.

“I always suspected you were merely trying to avoid marrying into our clan. It appears you and your partner truly were only,” she pauses, “estranged.”

“I had always said he was away on important business,” he tells her as she takes a seat beside him. He could hazard a guess at the thoughts that must be running through her calculating mind. “If you think telling him about you is a threat to me, let me tell you now that he’s seen me at my worst.”

Chesna looks unfazed. “So he doesn’t hold the same affection for you then?”

A cutting remark, but Sylvain brushes it off. He only hums, running his finger along the rim of his cup. “He and I have known each other for a long time. It’s more than affection between us.”

After a few moments, she chuckles. She holds out her cup to him. “I suppose I never did have a chance then.”

Sylvain pours for her. “Sorry,” he says, sincere.

“Don’t be. Our goal was accomplished. And I had moved on a long time ago, as we Sreng are wont to do,” she says as they drink. “It was for the best, anyway. You and I are too like-minded. That makes for good alliances, not relationships.”

Sylvain watches Felix as he dances, smiling faintly. It brings up old memories. “Your mother said a word I didn’t understand,” he mentions to Chesna. He attempts to repeat the word when she looks at him. “She used it to describe Felix and I.”

“Ah,” she says before she hums, thoughtful. “A fitting word, but difficult to translate.” She is quiet for a long while, presumably collecting her thoughts. “It is what we call that which changes the direction of the wind on a whim, what we call the lights that have no origin. The force that causes the things we understand to move in mysterious ways."

Sylvain huffs a laugh, draining his cup. “A strange word to use to describe two people."

“Not at all. It is like this: two things, once understood on their own, who move against what we know of them. Like the sea which rises when the moon shows its full face. Not unpredictable because we see the cause, but we do not understand their connection. We sometimes say this about the bonds between people. Something unexplainable, unknowable except by yourselves, or perhaps not even by yourselves. It can be said of enemies, friends, lovers — seemingly in defiance of your natural course, against what is expected, you are drawn to each other. Yes,” she says, satisfied with her translation. “That is what it means.”

-

The moon hangs high in the sky by the time the camp finally quiets and Sylvain is released from his drinking duties with Anya and the other elders. After looking around for Felix, one of his soldiers informs him that Felix has gone back to their tent.

Their tent is set up a little ways from the others, underneath a short outcropping, blocking it from the wind. As Sylvain nears, he sees Felix standing on top, looking up at the sky. Ducking into the tent to retrieve a pelt, Sylvain walks up as well, shivering in the wind as he comes up behind Felix, wrapping the pelt around Felix’s shoulders. “The cold here is different from Fódlan’s.”

Felix tugs the pelt tight around himself, sniffling. “Dry.”

“Cuts right to the bone,” Sylvain agrees, rubbing his arms. “What are you doing out here anyway?”

Felix looks at him, then points at the sky. “I saw lights.”

Sylvain looks up to see waves of light in the sky. After so many visits to Sreng, he had nearly forgotten about them. He remembers the first time he saw them, awestruck. Seeing that same wonder on Felix’s face makes him smile. “We saw beasts and dragons and the dead coming back to life,” Sylvain says. “Some pretty lights in the sky is a welcome change of pace in terms of magical phenomena, isn’t it?”

Felix doesn’t take his eyes off the sky. “What’s making them?”

“No one knows. Perhaps the Goddess, though I never got around to asking the professor.” He looks up, letting go of a breath, bright white in the cold air. “The Sreng believe the lights are the spirits of those we’ve lost. That when they shine brightly, it means they’re happy.”

The two of them stand there in silence, looking up at the ribbons of light. “Do you believe that?” Felix asks softly.

The lights shift from green to purple to blue, unexplainable. They’re still beautiful, no matter how many times he sees them. “I try to.”

They stay a little while longer until Felix sneezes. Herding Felix back down their tent, Sylvain stokes the coals in the small brazier in the middle of the tent before he takes off his cold clothes and quickly climbs under their bedding, a thick silk comforter with more pelts layered on top for extra warmth. The first night had been spent working, the second spent falling dead asleep — it was nice to finally be able to relax.

From the bed, he watches Felix undress, watches him unravel his braid and comb his fingers through his hair. Felix’s hair is too soft to hold shape, but the days of having it tightly braided have made faint ripples in his hair.

“You’re close with the clan leader’s daughter.”

Sylvain figures it wouldn’t have escaped Felix’s notice. It wasn’t something he planned on bringing up, but he wasn’t interested in keeping secrets from Felix either. “Mm,” he says, adjusting his head on his pillow. “I slept with her a handful of times a long time ago.”

Felix's hand pauses in his hair, so brief Sylvain almost misses it, before he moves again. “A part of your negotiations?”

For a period of time after Felix left, Sylvain had thought it was hopeless to wait for him. Not long after that, he had begun making frequent trips to Sreng, throwing himself into his diplomatic work. Chesna was the one who had approached him first; despite knowing she had an angle, he had not resisted her advances. Call it a moment of weakness, but back then, he wasn’t yet used to loneliness. “It was a way to figure out what the Sreng wanted during the peace talks,” Sylvain answers. “She had her motives and it paid off to let her make her assumptions about me, to let her think she had something she could hold over my head. And if diplomacy alone wasn’t going to achieve peace with Sreng, I had briefly considered the option of marrying her to do it.”

Felix sets his hair tie down on the low table. “That would have been the easiest option, wouldn't it?"

Objectively, it wouldn’t have been a great sacrifice to marry Chesna, pragmatic and beautiful as she is. As far as he knew, Felix was gone from his life, had even said it himself that Sylvain could end the marriage if he wished. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever tell Felix the truth, that the marriage had been his last-ditch effort to get him to stay, a way for him to at least have a tangible thing, even something as flimsy as a piece of paper, that said they belonged to each other. In hindsight, that should have been a sign that he wouldn’t — couldn’t move on from him. Despite it being a charade, it had only felt more and more like betrayal, had only become clearer that even if Felix never came back to him, Sylvain was unwilling to let go of what the marriage meant to him, however much of a farce it was. “Maybe,” Sylvain concedes. “But I had worked hard to ensure it wouldn’t come to that.”

Felix hums. “Cruel of you to lead her on.”

Sylvain chuckles. “I’ve never taken off my ring. She knew what she was getting into. It didn’t last long anyway.”

Felix is silent for a long moment. “Did you ever love her?”

Sylvain watches Felix carefully, but he’s still turned away from him, no movement betraying his thoughts. “No,” he answers truthfully.

Felix falls silent. He pulls on his nightclothes before he extinguishes the oil lamps, save for one, carefully setting it aside before climbing into bed himself. Sylvain can feel the chill of Felix’s body, resisting the urge to pull it against his, to warm him up, but Felix moves closer first, his legs sliding against Sylvain's as he settles on top of him, straddling his waist. Sylvain blinks up at him as Felix folds his hands on top of his chest. His hair spills down his shoulders like ink, his eyes sharp and bright in the low light. Bold from the wine, Sylvain reaches up to brush Felix's hair out of his face, his thumb running over the smear of pink along his cheek, cold from standing outside for so long.

“Our tent is far from the others,” Felix mentions casually, leaning into the warmth of Sylvain’s hand.

Sylvain wonders if Felix can feel his heart thumping against his palm. “I think they wanted to give us privacy,” he says. “This is the first time I’ve visited with my husband after all.”

Felix hums. “I suppose we shouldn’t let their kindness and consideration go to waste,” he says, voice low. “And it seems I need to punish my husband for his indiscretion.”

Sylvain's body grows warmer under Felix’s. “You’re telling me you’ve never laid with another all these years, Felix?” Sylvain murmurs, meeting his gaze in a challenge.

Felix doesn’t waver. “Would you believe me if I said I haven’t?”

His heart racing, Sylvain shivers as Felix’s cool hands touch his suddenly feverish skin, running up his neck, brushing against the coarse stubble on his cheeks. “Are you mad at me?” He asks softly, though the thought of Felix being jealous thrills him.

“No," Felix answers. His lips graze his as his fingers curl tightly in Sylvain's hair. “I only have myself to blame for neglecting my belongings.”

-

The Sreng will be moving once more to let their horses graze before winter sets in, so they rise early to pack up camp. Sylvain struggles to get ready, his body sore, having gotten little rest during the night. At least Felix has tied his hair back neatly himself when they bid the Sreng goodbye.

“Until next time, Lord Gautier,” Chesna says after they say their goodbyes to Anya. “I hope to see more of you as well, Duke Fraldarius.”

Felix’s eyes narrow. “You will,” he promises coldly before he turns and leaves for his horse, leaving Sylvain dumbstruck.

“I quite like him,” Chesna says with an amused smile before Sylvain can sputter out an apology.

Felix is still angry, judging by the way he ignores him the nights they sleep at the inns, even by the time they get home, but Sylvain can’t seem to muster up the dread when Felix shows up at his bedroom that night, the door slamming shut as he shoves him in.

Afterward, when Felix falls asleep tucked up against him, Sylvain lies awake, his hand curling around Felix’s, still wearing the gold ring.

-

Despite the lethargy that comes with the bitter cold and heavy snow, winter is the busiest time of the year as everyone, lords and townsfolk alike, make preparations for the millennium festival. The millennium festival was not something Sylvain was used to attending as a child, even though it's fairly common for lords to go as it's a rare casual event. His father wasn’t one for mingling with the townsfolk if he could avoid it. But Sylvain remembers it to be Felix’s favorite time of the year — Felix would always excitedly talk about the decorations and the tasty foods he was looking forward to whenever Sylvain visited close to the week-long celebration. As margrave, he’s made the effort to attend every year, staying involved with the planning of the festival to ensure that everything runs smoothly.

As the sun sets on the eve of the last day of the festival, Sylvain changes into the clothes prepared for the occasion. Fitting with the winter theme, the clothes are all dyed in shades of blue. Decorative flower patterns are embroidered with pearl white thread on his coat, having taken months to complete. He pulls on the velvet cloak last — dyed a deep sapphire blue with eight-pointed stars stitched along the edge, lined with snow-white fox fur, with a few golden embellishments hanging from the edge of the cape. Hooking the golden clasp in place and casting one last look in the mirror, he leaves his room and heads to Felix’s. Gerard is standing outside Felix’s door, bowing when he sees Sylvain.

Sylvain flashes a pose. “How do I look?”

“Very handsome, my Lord,” Gerard says politely, unflappable as ever. “His Grace should be out momentarily. I will go and call for the carriage.”

The door opens not long after Gerard excuses himself, Felix stepping out, dressed in his own festival clothes. Their clothes are cut from the same cloth, with Felix wearing a simpler fur-lined tunic instead. Along with the same stars stitched along the edge, Felix’s cloak is lined with an intricate shimmering silver lace trim. A ruffled satin bow ties it closed at his neck, diminishing the intensity of the impressive glare Felix shoots him.

“I look ridiculous,” he mumbles.

“I think you look wonderful. Like a present,” Sylvain teases. Felix huffs as Sylvain reaches out to adjust the bow. “Blue really is your color. It’s always a bit unfortunate for me. My hair clashes with it.”

Felix looks up at him as Sylvain brushes his hair back; his hair is down tonight. With all of this blue, Felix’s eyes stand out even more. “I think it looks nice,” Felix says, his eyes darting away shyly.

Sylvain smiles warmly. “Thank you,” he says before he offers his arm. “Shall we?”

Once meant to celebrate the Goddess and the saints, the millennium festival has come to celebrate the winter solstice as well. Decorated with banners and streamers, the town has been bustling with activity since the festival started, with no signs of it letting up despite the light snow falling over them. Visitors from neighboring towns, even other territories make the trip to Gautier despite it being so far north, or perhaps because it is. Every town’s festival is different — Gautier celebrates with traditional winter sweets and the famous goods that bear its name, their artisans bringing out their finest goods, wines and cheese they’ve been cultivating all year just for the festival.

“When was the last time you went to the millennium festival?” Sylvain asks as they take the carriage to the town.

“It must be over twenty years now,” Felix answers faintly, looking out the window.

They disembark by the main street, lined end to end with stalls, the streets full of people. Sylvain greets the vendors like old friends, having visited them every year to check on their preparations even if he wasn’t attending. Sylvain alternates attendance of the festival between Gautier and Fraldarius, but at Sylvain’s behest, a few vendors from Fraldarius have made their goods available here this year as well. As they peruse the stalls, Sylvain finds the stall he’s been looking for — one that sells preserved meats. “Lord Gautier,” the vendor greets, beckoning him closer. “I have the package you requested.”

“I hope it wasn’t too much trouble,” Sylvain says as the vendor digs around his inventory.

“Not at all, my Lord! I just wanted to make sure you received the first piece before I put it out on display,” he says, unwrapping a package revealing a hefty stack of sticky deep red jerky wrapped in butcher paper. “Old Myra’s candied jerky is very popular in Fraldarius. She always refuses to let me sell some for her here but for you, she’s finally made an exception.”

Beside him, Felix’s eyes widen. Sylvain smiles. “I had asked if anyone knew what you liked to eat during the festival,” he tells him as the vendor takes a large piece and cuts it into smaller squares. “Turns out your appetite was quite well-known.”

Felix flushes, embarrassed, as the vendor slides the jerky into a cone of butcher paper, handing it to him. “It’s been many years, Your Grace, but Myra remembers you loved this when you were a boy.”

Felix takes the cone, eating a piece. His expression brightens as he chews. “It’s as delicious as I remember,” he says as he eats another. “Please pass along my thanks.”

The vendor grins, accepting Sylvain’s payment for a portion to be sent back to the manor with a deep bow. “I will. It’s good to see you’ve returned for good, Your Grace. I’m sure it would make Myra happy to see you next year in Fraldarius.”

With others eager to buy some of the jerky, they quickly move on to the next stall. “Here.” Sylvain blinks when Felix holds up a piece of jerky in front of him. “You’ll like it.”

Sylvain obediently eats it. Unlike regular jerky, the candied jerky is, as expected, sweet and salty with good flavor, but surprisingly soft and chewy. Felix looks at him, expectant. “Tasty,” Sylvain tells him, opening his mouth for another.

Pleased, Felix feeds him another piece. “You never got to come with me to the festival in Fraldarius,” he says as he eats another himself. “I wonder if they’ll still have all the things I remember when we go next year.”

Sylvain’s heart skips at the thought of next year. “I’m sure they do,” he says. “Along with a lot of new things too.”

They eat their way through the festival, finding other Fraldarius specialties among the stalls — more preserved meats, salted caramel, spicy rice cakes. Lysithea's cake has become very popular as well, the recipe having been shared with their local bakers, with Felix's permission, as one of the duke's favorite tea time accompaniments. "It's just like her's," Felix tells him when Sylvain asks how it tastes. "But I like the one you make with honey too."

Though the town knows Felix has returned, this is the first occasion they’ve been seen together in public, some of the townspeople taking the chance to give them their regards, even a few belated congratulations for their marriage.

“You and Lord Gautier make a beautiful couple, Duke Fraldarius,” Sylvain overhears a vendor coo as he’s waiting for Felix. “You must be so happy to be together again.”

Felix flushes as he takes two cups of mulled wine from her. “We are,” he answers, thanking her and handing over payment before returning to Sylvain, giving him his cup. Sylvain smiles to himself as Felix presses close against his side, pulling him along to the next stall.

They eventually make their way to the town square where the main attraction resides. At the beginning of each year, a local artisan is chosen to make the stars for their millennium festival, one hundred of them, with the patronage of the margrave. Glass stars hang suspended in the air, glowing faintly against the night sky as snow swirls gently around them. In the square, families sit together admiring the spectacle, enjoying their food as children play in the snow. Sylvain can hear hymns being sung from the church, less saintly songs sung from the tavern, the sounds spilling onto the streets. He still remembers the eerie silence during the years of war, most of the townspeople having fled or joined the army. It’s taken years for Fódlan to recover, for people to return home to rebuild, to raise their families in the hard-fought peace. With every passing year, he finds more peace as he sees the town grow fuller. Sylvain touches one of the delicate stars, the enchanted light inside flickering. Even the artisan was once a mage in the war. It still amazes him to see proof — that despite all the terrible things they had seen in the war, all the pain they had suffered, people still find the strength to make beautiful things.

“What do you think of it?” Sylvain asks.

Felix pulls his gaze away from the stars. “It’s really something,” he says softly.

He leads Felix toward the artisan, who waits for them holding the final brightest star, the honor of putting it in place reserved for them. The artisan thanks them for their patronage as she presents the star to them. Felix holds out his hand, the star floating into his palm, the light glowing brighter.

“Careful, it must be thunder magic,” Sylvain says gently, reaching to cup Felix’s hand. Felix hums, touching one of the points with his finger, the star slowly spinning. He lifts his hand, letting the star float up, a hush falling over the square as they watch it float above the rest.

Once it’s settled in place, Felix hooks their arms together, pulling him along. “Let’s see it further up.”

They take a walk away from the town center, up a hill that overlooks the square. The glass stars look as though they are rising to join the ones in the sky. Sylvain thinks of the previous years of attending the festival alone, seeing it more as an obligation then, wondering if there was a chance Felix was in the crowd, looking up at the stars too. When he thinks about it, he doesn’t remember much from the past ten years, like all that time is dull around the edges — the festivals, the events, the days and nights spent alone, spent holed up in his study all indistinguishable from each other. But when he thinks of these past months with Felix, there is a clarity to it, even to the days when they hardly do anything, a memory of Felix’s rare smile, even rarer laugh, of something he said, however inconsequential it was. This night, too, will be etched into his memory, the way Felix looked, illuminated among the glowing stars. It has been a blessing to have this, to have him.

He’s pulled out of his thoughts when he feels Felix turning his ring around his finger. Felix is still wearing his, ever since Sreng. “You know, this was my mother’s ring,” Felix tells him.

Sylvain blinks. “I didn’t,” he says, looking at the silver ring. “I’d understand if you want it back.”

Felix glances up at him before leaning his head against Sylvain’s shoulder. “Who do you think told my uncle to send it to you?” He mumbles. “It’s yours now.”

Sylvain doesn’t know what to say to that, his heart skipping as Felix holds his hand.

High up in the sky, the brightest star shines, believed to be the star of the Goddess. It’s a tradition to pray to the Goddess, asking her to grant a wish. Sylvain has always been greedy with his wishes but this year, there’s one less wish to make, the wish having already come true.

-

After that, they make their way back to the manor. It’s mostly empty, the attendants off to enjoy the festivities with their own families. With Felix warm and affectionate at his side, it’s hard not to take him to his room for the night, but Sylvain stops in front of Felix’s room and pulls away. “There’s some work I put off,” Sylvain says when Felix looks at him questioningly. “I’d like to finish it tonight.”

Felix frowns. “Can’t it wait until tomorrow?”

If it were any other night, Sylvain wouldn’t be able to resist with how adorably petulant Felix sounds. “It won’t get done if I don’t do it now,” Sylvain says with a light laugh, smiling when Felix sulks. He lifts his hand to stroke his hair, tucking it behind his ear before he leans in to press a chaste kiss to his lips. “Thank you for accompanying me tonight. It was the best festival I’ve ever attended.” Felix looks up at him, his cheeks pink. “Good night, Felix.”

Felix opens his door, casting him one more look. “Good night, Sylvain.”

Sylvain waits for Felix to close his door, waits a few moments more before he returns to his room. He changes out of his clothes, carefully hanging them up. Then he silently slips out of his room and goes to his study.

Lighting the fireplace, he walks past his desk, over to the bureau, retrieving a stack of letters. Separate from his usual correspondences, from his letters from Felix, are old letters from his classmates and friends. Settling in his armchair, he skims them, the stack sorted by date. Most of them were written during the war, about the war — he sets those aside. What’s left are letters from simpler times. The first one he finds is from Ingrid, a year before they were able to see each other again at Garreg Mach. His lips twitch up in a small smile as he rereads it, as she mostly scolds him about his philandering, which she's somehow managed to hear about in Galatea. The next is from Dimitri, ever formal as he expresses his relief to hear Sylvain had applied to the academy. Sylvain still remembers his cheeky reply — that his father had forced him to so he'd stop causing trouble at home. He continues to read about the updates on their lives, how they’ve improved with their training, lamenting the growing pressures of adulthood, even petty complaints, ignoring the pain in his chest until it grows too heavy for him to continue, setting the letters down.

This time of year is always difficult for him. Eleven years ago, he had returned to Garreg Mach to fulfill a promise he had made to his classmates, only to find their missing professor in the ruins of the monastery, setting off a chain of events that would change their lives forever. Sometimes Sylvain wonders what would have happened if he hadn’t gone to the promised meeting, if he had stayed in Gautier, if Dimitri might have recruited him for his cause before —

“So you’re still up.” Sylvain glances at the doorway where Felix is leaning against the doorjamb, arms crossed. He walks over, taking his usual seat. “Finished with your work?”

Sylvain manages a short laugh. “You caught me.”

“You haven’t gotten any better at lying.” Felix looks at him, glances at the letters on the table. He rifles through them, picking one up. Sylvain hears him sigh softly.

“I should probably burn them,” Sylvain says, like he feels like he needs to explain himself. “I always tell myself I will, but —”

Felix sets the letter back down carefully. “I couldn’t do it either."

Sylvain twists his ring. It’s a tell of his, Byleth once told him. They said Sylvain did it whenever he was thinking about the past. “Do you ever wonder what would have happened if we had followed Dimitri instead?” Sylvain asks. “If things would have ended differently?”

Felix looks at the fire. “After all this time, you still think about it?”

Sylvain looks at Felix. “Don’t you?”

They all have regrets — even Byleth, who had wished they could’ve found a way to save them all, even Claude, who once confessed to Sylvain that he had thought of all the ways he could have convinced Dimitri to join them, if only he could have reached him in time. He and Felix had both transferred to Golden Deer — Sylvain with the thought of the future in mind, Felix with only the drive to improve his swordsmanship against the mysterious professor. Sylvain had thought building a rapport with the future leaders of the Leicester Alliance would help when Dimitri became king, when he himself eventually inherited his title. He tries to tell himself they couldn’t have anticipated Edelgard’s ambition, the war that followed, the depth of Dimitri’s obsession with vengeance.

“He was walking a path we couldn’t follow him down,” Felix finally says, his voice quiet. “Dimitri — the Dimitri we knew — wouldn’t have wanted that for us. If he knew —” He stops, takes a breath. “If he could’ve known how it would’ve ended, he wouldn’t have asked anyone to follow him.”

Sylvain will never forget the war. He would never forget how Lord Galatea had thanked him for bringing Ingrid’s body home before he passed, would never forget finding Dimitri on the fields of Gronder after the battle, burying him with Dedue in Fhirdiad after the war was over, would never forget standing with Felix as they laid his father to rest by his mother and brother, before Felix left. On the worst nights, Sylvain thinks it would have been better if he had died with them, if only so he wouldn’t have to live with this guilt, to live haunted by the memories, but he knows why Byleth had asked him to remain, to hold up his house. Like a keeper of a crypt, he rules the lands once bearing the names of his most cherished friends, once belonging to a dead kingdom he had sworn to protect. He would watch over them until his last breath. He won’t let himself forget.

“Sylvain.” He blinks when he feels Felix’s hand on his, his touch soft over his clenched fist. “Thinking about this will do you no good. We can’t change the past, no matter how hard we wish we could.”

Sylvain unclenches his hand, grasps Felix’s between his. “I can’t help it,” he whispers.

Felix's thumb strokes the back of his hand. “I was the same. I struggled for years — until I came across Lysithea,” Felix confesses. “Despite knowing her life had been unfairly taken from her, she lived happily, the way she wanted with the time she had left. I realized that living in regret served no one, not even the ones we think we’re honoring. It only hurts us.” He feels Felix’s hand on his cheek, lifting his chin to meet his pained gaze. “Hurts the people who care about us.”

The fire has died down by the time Sylvain lets Felix pull him up to his feet, lets him lead him to his room. Lets Felix pull him in, closing the door behind them. They stand by the door, quiet, Felix looking up at him, sad, worried. “I’m sorry,” Sylvain says, because he doesn’t know what else to say.

“You don’t have anything to apologize for,” Felix whispers, almost angrily before he takes a breath. "Just come to bed with me."

He obeys, following, climbing into bed as Felix lies down beside him, facing him. It’s better than the darkness, better than being alone with his thoughts, having Felix to focus on. Even when he didn’t have Felix with him, he would think of Felix anyway, always thinks of Felix, always remembers the day he had nearly died after taking a blow for him, how Felix had shouted for him to stay awake as he dragged him back to safety. He remembers the night he was allowed to go back to his room, how Felix was waiting for him, how they had held each other through the night, silent as Sylvain felt the collar of his shirt dampen, Felix’s shoulders shaking in his arms. Felix needed him. They had made a promise to each other, to stay together until they died. It was enough for him to live, to hold on through the war. It was enough to bear anything.

“We survived,” Felix tells him, voice fragile. “Dimitri, Ingrid, everyone we’ve lost — they wouldn’t blame us for that. And even when I miss them,” he swallows, “even when I don’t think I deserve it, I’m grateful every day that I get to have this.”

Sylvain reaches out to trace the curve of Felix’s cheek. Even in the dark, Felix’s eyes are bright like stars, flashing each time he blinks slowly. Sylvain used to think the only thing that bound them was obligation, to their families, to their chosen leaders. But he thinks of the quiet moments of peace they’ve shared over the past year, the solace they’ve always managed to find in each other. In numbers, their grief eclipses their joy, but somehow they manage to be gentle with each other in spite of their pain, to fall in love, to forgive each other when they can’t forgive themselves. _You love him_ , Sylvain thinks as he touches Felix’s hand, as he threads their fingers together, their rings glinting in the moonlight. It used to be mysterious, the way his heart settles every time he calls Felix’s name and Felix turns toward him, the way Felix closes his hand over his now. _You don’t know who you’d be if you didn’t_.

“I am too,” Sylvain says softly and Felix exhales, pressing his lips against their joined hands.

-

The days pass, just like this.

They settle into routine. It becomes ordinary for Sylvain to see Felix when he wakes up. The sleepless nights he used to spend in his study are now spent with Felix, tucked against his side in bed as they talk, as he reads by the low light, the warmth of his body, his voice lulling Sylvain to sleep. Winter feels shorter this year, less harsh as they move into the Pegasus Moon.

Sylvain wakes alone today. It's not particularly unusual; Felix is an early riser. He dresses and goes downstairs for breakfast, looking around to see the dining table empty. Felix will usually wait to have breakfast with him no matter how late Sylvain wakes up, though it’s also not unusual if he eats before him, especially if he’s itching to train. Regardless, he glances toward the staircase in between bites, expecting Felix to show up any minute.

“Did Duke Fraldarius come down already?” Sylvain asks when Felix still hasn’t showed up by the time he’s finished his food, the maid coming to tidy away his plate.

“I haven’t seen the duke all morning, my Lord,” the maid answers.

He must have overslept. Sylvain stands, trying to quell the irrational panic already rising in his heart. He makes his way to Felix’s room, knocking twice. Moments pass. He knocks again and presses his ear to the door. There’s no sound.

“Good morning, my Lord,” Gerard greets as he comes down the hall.

“Did Felix step out?” Sylvain asks, futilely trying to keep his desperation from tingeing his voice. Felix always lets someone know when he leaves the manor. Maybe he had just gone into the town to visit the baker, to the blacksmith to browse their wares for old time’s sake.

“If he did, I’m afraid I didn’t see him, my Lord.”

His heart sinks like a stone. “Ready my horse,” Sylvain orders.

Gerard frowns. “My Lord, I’m sure His Grace is only —”

“Call for the soldiers to search for him —”

“My Lord,” Gerard says firmly, bowing deeply. “Please have faith in him.”

“Faith is what made me lose him for ten years,” Sylvain bites out before he forces himself to stay calm, taking even breaths. “I’m sorry, Gerard, I’m just —”

“Please. I understand, my Lord,” Gerard says. He thinks for a moment. “I will seek out the captain. Perhaps one of the guards has seen him.”

Left in the hall, Sylvain goes into Felix’s room. It’s in the same state it’s always in. Sylvain can see his swords tucked away in the corner, a fine layer of dust covering the sheaths. It should give him some relief, but instead he can only think of reasons Felix would leave them behind. Maybe he didn’t think to take them, having hardly used them in the past year. Maybe he left them behind for Sylvain to find. Sylvain thinks of the notes on his desk, the plans for this year’s millennium festival in Fraldarius, notes scrawled for himself, ideas for what to do for Felix’s birthday, despite warning himself not to think of this as permanent. He runs his hands through his hair, frustrated, lost. Heartbroken all over again. He was such a fool.

He makes a round about the manor, asking the attendants if they’ve seen Felix, with no answers. He nearly leaves to get his horse himself to search him before he sees that Gerard has returned, this time with Kristoph’s lieutenant in tow.

“My Lord, the captain had left late last night with a squad,” the lieutenant says. “I believe Duke Fraldarius is with him, judging by our weapon inventory this morning.”

It’s something, but it’s not proof. “Why didn’t I hear anything about this?” Sylvain demands.

The lieutenant bows. “My apologies, but as far as I know, the captain had come to the manor to inform you. We were ordered to hold and defend the town if necessary until he returned.”

Sylvain clenches his hands at his sides. “Very well,” he says tightly. “Return to your post, lieutenant. We will honor the captain’s orders.”

Without any information, Sylvain can only stay, attempting to distract himself with work, to no avail. Time loses its rhythm, going too slow, going too fast — night comes quickly but seems to last forever. Despite worrying himself worn, he's unable to sleep, much less sit down, pacing his study anxiously in the dark, his mind jumping to every possible conclusion, spiralling. He nearly jumps out of his skin when there's a sudden knock on the door, wrenching it open, hoping it’s Felix.

Instead, it’s Lena, clutching a message in her hands, quickly handing it to him. Sylvain unfurls it, his heart pounding as he reads — an incursion southwest of Fraldarius, reported by a patrol requesting reinforcements as a precaution. Messengers have been dispatched to all nearby lords who are able to send soldiers as well as to the capital. At the time of the report, there’s estimated to be at least a battalion’s worth of insurgents.

Finally, in Felix's handwriting: _By order of Duke Fraldarius, Margrave Gautier is to remain in hold position._ The Crest of Fraldarius stamped beside it.

Sylvain swears under his breath, the paper crumpling in his hands. "My Lord?" Lena utters fearfully, wringing her hands.

Though all he wants is to get on his horse and go to Felix’s side, this is enough to tide him over, to lessen some of his fear. He releases a breath, folding the letter. "Felix is with them," he says, Lena sighing with relief. "I'm to await his orders."

She looks at him, worried, resting her hand on his shoulder in comfort. "I'll make you some tea," she says. "To try to help you sleep."

Lena stays with him, filling the silence until it grows too difficult for her to stay awake. She shepherds him to his room, imploring him to get some rest. “His Grace will be back before you know it,” she assures him.

He tries. But still, he lies awake at night, wondering if the kiss he pressed to Felix’s temple before they fell asleep would be his last, if he would ever get to run his fingers through his hair again, if he would ever feel the warmth of Felix's voice whispering his name.

-

Another day, another night passes. Another message, a higher estimate of insurgents — confirmed to be Imperial soldiers. Another note from Felix: _By order of Duke Fraldarius, Margrave Gautier is to remain in hold position._ Another stamp.

-

After days of uncomfortable, oppressive silence, the manor jolts back to life as the doors slam open in the entrance hall, guards shouting followed by hurried footsteps and clattering armor. Bursting out of his study, Sylvain quickly descends the stairs and stumbles out of the manor; in the distance, he sees his soldiers on foot and on horseback trudge along the path back to the manor. His heart pounding, he looks at every soldier that passes, searching through the commotion of attendants pulling in the wounded, the stableboys tending to the horses, until he sees Kristoph, and then, trailing beside him, Felix. Relief washes over him as he rushes forward, as the both of them dismount. They look as tired and worn as the other soldiers, but at least they're alive. 

“My deepest apologies, my Lord,” Kristoph says first, bowing deeply, wincing as he straightens. “I could not return the duke to you unharmed.”

“I’m just glad to see you’ve both returned safely, captain,” Sylvain says, his heart still thumping hard in his chest as he glances at Felix, who's already issuing an order to one of his attendants. "Are you injured?”

Kristoph waves a hand. “I’ll be fine. Leave the beds for the others —”

“Please, let yourself rest. “

After tasking a soldier with taking Kristoph to the infirmary, he finally turns to Felix. “They had an encampment deep in the forest,” Felix tells him before Sylvain can speak. “It was nothing close to the numbers in the attack on Derdriu, luckily, though I’m certain they were working up to it. It’s a good thing the patrols have been vigilant, but one must have gotten too close and forced their hand before —”

Sylvain pulls him into his arms. _He’s here_. He holds Felix tighter, sighing against his hair as Felix’s arms wrap around his waist. _He’s safe._

Once he’s certain this isn’t a dream, Sylvain pulls away, looking him over for injuries. Felix is dressed in his usual clothes, with only a standard-issue cuirass covering him, a loaned steel sword at his side — his heart aches when he sees blood staining Felix's clothes, bandages. Felix catches his hands, his gaze soft. “I’m fine,” he assures him, sighing. “It seems even my instincts have dulled lately.”

Sylvain clenches his jaw. “I’ll call for someone to help clean you up,” he says distantly. “I’ll have to — I’ll need to go see the professor, speak to the other lords —”

“It’s all handled now.” Sylvain looks over Felix’s shoulder to see Byleth waiting politely behind him, clad in their immaculate armor. He hadn’t even realized they were there. “We’ve managed to capture a few of the Agarthans in command. They will be taken back to Derdriu. I’m confident we’ll get some useful information out of them in due time.”

Sylvain meets Byleth’s gaze. “I wish I could have done more to help, professor.”

“You’ve done more than enough for me, Sylvain,” Byleth says. They glance at Felix. “Tend to your husband. There will be time for us to talk tomorrow after you’ve both gotten some rest.”

Byleth leaves with an attendant to be shown to their room while others are busy with their injured, leaving just the two of them. “Well,” Felix speaks up, glancing at him, “you heard them.”

-

Back in his room, Sylvain helps Felix out of his armor and clothes as the bath runs, unravels the hastily wrapped bandages. He takes inventory of Felix's injuries; there are bruises, dark purple and mottled, a few cuts already scabbed over, a few that haven’t. He places his hand over the worst of them, murmuring a healing spell, listening to Felix’s deep breath as the skin mends, Felix’s hand brushing against his cheek in thanks.

He takes care to be gentle as he runs the washcloth over the bruises, as he washes the grime out of Felix’s hair, brushing out the tangles. He doesn’t say a word; like work, this is something he can focus on without thinking, going through these motions, cleaning him until the water runs clear instead of copper.

“Are you hungry?” He asks after Felix has dressed, sitting on edge of the bed. “I’ll go get some food —”

“Come here.”

Sylvain obeys, sitting beside him. He doesn’t look at Felix, doesn’t trust himself to. He watches as Felix’s hand reaches for his, holds it — all it takes is a touch for the lingering panic to leave him all at once. He feels exhausted, overwrought, every breath unsteady.

“You haven’t slept.”

Sylvain shakes his head. Felix strokes his hand with his thumb, comforting.

“I’m sorry I worried you.”

“It’s okay,” Sylvain says faintly. He tries for a smile. “I just — I didn’t know where you went.”

"I woke up when Kristoph came to the manor. It seemed urgent so I hadn't taken much time to prepare before I left," Felix tells him. “You were sleeping soundly. I didn’t want to wake you for a matter I thought I could take care of easily.” He sighs. “I didn’t expect it to be what it was.”

"I know." Sylvain looks at the ring on Felix’s finger. His heart presses against his throat as he touches it.

Felix looks at him, his gaze searching. "I wouldn’t leave you, Sylvain.”

His blood runs cold. “You did before,” Sylvain whispers before he can stop himself.

He’s avoided it for long enough. As certain as he is that they love each other, the fear still lingers in the back of his mind. Those terrifying moments when he thought Felix had left him again was like reliving a nightmare, of the rainy night he watched Felix leave, wondering if it was truly the last time he would ever see him again. All those years of asking himself the same questions over and over, if he should have begged him to stay, if he should have held him down and kept him from leaving, if he just didn’t say the right thing to get through to him.

But unlike the night he left, every emotion is written clear on Felix’s face, the pain, the guilt. “I know. I’m sorry for what I did,” Felix breathes, bowing his head. “Please, believe me when I say it's a mistake I’ve regretted every day since.”

Sylvain knows — and it’s only ever made it more confusing. “Then why didn’t you come back sooner?” He asks. “All those years ago — I thought you left because I didn’t love you enough, because you didn’t love me enough —”

Felix clutches his hand tight. “You were always enough,” he says fiercely. “I had wanted to come back so many times but I —” he swallows. “After the war, I was so numb I couldn’t see a future for myself. I thought I had fallen so far that I didn't deserve you. Even when I realized how much I had hurt you, all it did was convince me that I’d lost the right to face you anymore." He looks down, his thumb brushing over Sylvain's ring. "I tried — I tried to show you I still loved you, still thought of you, but I was too afraid to come back. I could bear you being angry at me, even you never forgiving me for what I did.” When Felix lifts his head, his eyes are glassy, tears sliding down his cheeks. “But I was terrified that you didn’t love me anymore.”

“I did. I _do_ ,” he whispers, his heart aching as he tries to wipe away the tears on Felix’s face, when a quiet sob falls from Felix’s lips. Though it fills him with indescribable relief to finally know the truth, it hurts even more to know that Felix had been carrying this burden on his own. “It never crossed my mind to blame you, to be angry with you. All I wanted was for you to be with me.”

“I know,” Felix whispers shakily. “When I came back and saw you wearing my ring — when I realized you had waited for me for all these years, even though I had done nothing to deserve it, I swore to myself that I’d stay by your side for the rest of my life. That I’d protect you and make you happy, the way I should have.”

Sylvain looks at Felix, his tear-stained cheeks, his heart swelling with emotion at the conviction in Felix’s voice. Felix’s brow furrows again and Sylvain doesn’t even realize why until Felix lifts his hand to his cheek.

“Don’t cry too, Sylvain,” Felix says softly.

Sylvain lets Felix brush away his tears, smiling despite them. He doesn’t know what he did to deserve being loved by him, doesn’t know how he got so lucky. “There’s nothing unforgivable between us,” Sylvain says gently once they’ve both stopped crying. “Nothing that could make me love you less. As long as we’re together, we can make it through anything.” He takes both of his hands. “We may have not made marriage vows, but we promised to stay together, didn’t we?”

Felix nods, sniffling. “We can make them now.” He lifts his chin. “Marriage vows.”

Sylvain takes a deep breath, looking into Felix's eyes. “Then promise me you won’t leave like that again. That even if something forces us apart, you’ll always return to me.”

“I promise,” Felix says. “Promise me you won’t look at anyone but me.”

Sylvain laughs quietly, though Felix looks dead serious. “I promise.” He kisses his cheek, the corner of his lips before Felix turns to kiss him properly. “Promise me your heart. Because mine has never known how to leave you.”

Felix rests his forehead against his. “You have it,” Felix tells him, like it’s a secret he’s been holding for years. “You’ve always had it. Because I know my heart will only stop the moment yours does.”

-

Having managed to stop Those Who Slither In the Dark from staging another assault, Byleth is committed to ending their plans while they’re weakened. They ask Felix if he will formally take over his duties as duke and become the military strategist for their campaign — Felix accepts. Sylvain knows it means he and Felix will have to spend time apart again, but they both understand the importance of their duties, that peace is worth the sacrifice. Assured now that Felix will always return to him, his work, as always, serves as Sylvain’s distraction until he hears the calls of “Welcome back, Your Grace” in the manor. It’s still difficult to be away from Felix again, but separation reminds them to cherish each other, reminds them that their time together is precious.

It gets easier. Sylvain can sleep when it rains now. Tonight, he wakes, not because of the quiet patter against the window, but because of the soft click of the door, the rustle of clothes between careful footsteps.

Pulling himself out of sleep, Sylvain yawns, pulling the blankets tighter around him. “How was Derdriu?”

He hears a wet slap. “Dry.”

Sylvain wiggles and rolls over, settling in to watch Felix as he grumpily peels his drenched clothes off into a pile on the floor. “And the meeting?”

“It was fine,” Felix answers. His gaiter smacks against the chair as he yanks it off. “It may be a few more months until things settle down. We’ve nearly combed through every part of Fódlan, but the professor wants to be certain. As do I.”

Sylvain knows it can’t be easy, the things Felix has to do to keep the country safe. “Is there anything I can do?”

Felix wrings out the water in his hair before he looks at him. He thinks for a moment. “Move over.”

“You’re going to get the bed all wet,” Sylvain complains, though he obeys, scooting over and lifting the blanket as Felix takes off the last of his clothes and crawls in. Sylvain wraps an arm around him, shivering when Felix’s cold feet brush against his. “I’m going to have to warm you up before you get sick.”

Felix settles his head on the pillow while Sylvain tries to pat him dry with the blanket. “Well?” He looks at Sylvain, expectant. “Aren’t you going to welcome me home?”

Sylvain pushes Felix’s wet hair out of his face, carefully tucking away the strands before he cups Felix’s already warming cheek. “Welcome home, Felix,” he says softly.

In the grand scheme of things, nothing has changed. But when Felix tilts his chin up, waiting, when Sylvain smiles and leans in, it feels like time has started to move again, like everything is finally as it should be.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
